Tongues of Men and Angels
by Cameron Dial
Summary: After killing Richie Ryan, Duncan MacLeod encounters Warren Cochrane, an immortal who also killed his student.


                     The Tongues of Men and Angels

                            by Cameron Dial

Disclaimer: "Highlander" and its associated names, trademarks and

characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions, Inc., 

which reserves all copyrights.  This story is for entertainment 

purposes only.  No monetary compensation is received by the author.

No copyright infringement is intended.

I know it's their sandbox.  I just dropped by to play.

Timeline:  After "Indiscretions," before "To Be"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

                  When I was a child, I spake as a child.

               I understood as a child, I thought as a child:

            But when I became a man, I put away childish things.

                  For now we see through a glass, darkly;

                But then face to face:  Now I know in part;

                 But then shall I know even as I am known.

                          --1 Corinthians 13:11-12

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Since returning to Paris, he'd made a habit of visiting the

cemetery every few weeks.  Tessa was buried there, and there, too, just

beyond the edge of the neatly trimmed lawn, was where he had killed James

Horton.  Methos had buried Alexa here, as much as she loved Greece, so she

wouldn't be so far away.  And now Richie, too, was buried there, not so

very close to Tessa, but within sight of her grave.  Joe had seen to all

the arrangements, and had picked the simple, dark headstone as well:

"Richie Ryan," the inscription read.  "22 years.  Friend."

The words were carved deeply into the gray and white flecked marble, to

stand the wear of weather and time.  The thought that the headstone would

last longer than the young man whose life it marked made Mac's mouth

twitch, but there was nothing funny in the thought.  It seemed a pitifully

short life, even by mortal standards, he thought.  For an immortal, meant

to live centuries, it was particularly tragic--all the more so because

Richie had died so utterly, absolutely needlessly.

"I'd undo it if I could, Richie," MacLeod whispered, squatting on the

sidewalk in front of the headstone.  It was a crowded, urban cemetery, the

graves packed tightly together in a typically European fashion, the graves

separated from the city street by a narrow strip of lawn and a wrought iron

fence.  Balancing easily on the balls of his feet in the quiet of the early

morning, the streets beyond the fence devoid of all but the lightest

traffic, Duncan traced the stone's inscription with one thumb.  He couldn't

undo it, of course, and that was the problem.

Driven nearly to madness by--what?  Had it been ghosts, or demons, or what,

exactly, that had pushed him to seeming insanity over a year ago, so he had

killed his own student?  At the time he had believed--no, he had

**known**--that the things he had experienced were real beyond a doubt.

Now . . . well, it was harder, over a year later, to know for sure.  After

the confrontation that had ended in Richie's death, MacLeod had left Paris

bent not on self-destruction but on reintegration, on coming to grips both

with his own actions and the forces that had driven him.  He had left his

katana where it fell, stained with Richie's blood, and for the first time

in years had lived without the feel of it in his hands, a deadly extension

of who and what he was.

Now, he could feel the sword's once-again familiar weight beneath his

coat.  He was aware of the way the blade slid along the short stubble of

winter grass as he rose, straightening so the sword shifted against his

left side, the carved hilt ready if needed.  Joe had seen to that, too,

keeping it against his return, and handing it back when he was ready; when

he needed it.

Even as he rose, one hand still on the cool, dry marble, something teased

at the edge of his awareness and Duncan frowned, turning.

"Methos?" he said, only half-aware he had spoken aloud.  He looked up and

around slowly while the feeling resolved itself into the oldest immortal's

oddly elongated signature, a cacophony of sound and sense, like the scratch

and strike of a wooden match, building and flaring in both mind and

memory.  Not every immortal's warning buzz was so distinctive, but since

the double quickening he and Methos had shared after the Horseman debacle,

Mac had come to recognize this one, even at a distance.

He spotted him then, keeping well back, just on the edge of Mac's sensing

range.  A tall man, razor-sharp and whipcord thin, Methos stood in the

shadow of an elaborately carved gravestone some distance away, on the other

side of the cement walkway encircling the graves in this section of the

cemetery.  They stood looking at each other for a bit, and then Methos

began moving toward Mac slowly, as if he were unsure of his welcome, hands

stuffed in the pockets of his gray trench in a familiar posture.

They stood in front of Richie's grave without speaking until the silence

grew beyond what either could pretend was comfortable.  At last Methos

rubbed one finger across the bridge of his nose, sliding a glance at

MacLeod and clearing his throat.

"You cut your hair," he said, and MacLeod made a sound that might have been

assent.  It wasn't a warm greeting and, as usual when facing one of the

Scot's silences, Methos' inclination was to fill it with nonessentials to

goad the younger immortal into speaking.  "So," he continued, "Joe said you

caught Claudia Jardin's performance in London.  I gather the critics were

impressed."  Now that they were actually standing there together, Methos

realized he had forgotten how big the other man was, and it took him half a

moment to center himself as a result.  In that time he almost missed

it--the tickle of another immortal along his spine, nearly masked by

MacLeod's much closer presence.

"Don't tell me you actually care," MacLeod said.  He thought Methos was

about to reply, but then the older immortal's head jerked up abruptly,

attention focused elsewhere.  "What?" Mac asked.  He caught it too, then,

the sense that a third immortal was near by, the other's tell-tale

signature all but swallowed up in Methos' stronger presence.  MacLeod

whirled, alert, his right hand going to the katana even as he started

forward.

"MacLeod, wait!" Methos called.

Ignoring the older man, MacLeod started forward, heedless of Methos'

reaching for his arm.

"Damn it, you don't know who it is--" Methos shouted after him.  "Not that

that ever stopped you before," he mumbled, following Mac's charge with a

bit less enthusiasm.

MacLeod came to an abrupt halt and Methos, unable to stop in time, slid on

the frost-slick grass and collided into him.  Instinctively Mac put his

left arm out, half steadying Methos, half restraining him.  Mac lifted his

left hand to signal for silence, the katana gripped in his right hand.

Becoming aware of it in that instant, he returned the sword to its sling

inside his coat, answering Methos' questioning look with a shrug.  "Holy

ground," he said, and Methos rolled his eyes.

"You'll forgive me if I'm less worried about the niceties than you are,"

the older immortal said, reaching for his own sword.

"Methos, it's holy ground," Mac said, irritation slipping into his tone.

"We can't fight here."

"And are you sure our friend knows that?"

"Methos."  MacLeod had glowering down to a science.

"Oh, all right," Methos muttered, sliding the sword back into place.

"Go that way," MacLeod said, pointing to the left, where a mausoleum

between them and the cemetery fence blocked the line of sight.  Beyond that

was a stretch of grass and, beyond the fence, the street.  "I'll check this

way."

"This is **not** what I came for, MacLeod," Methos hissed.  It did no good,

naturally--MacLeod had already moved off in his chosen direction and quite

obviously expected Methos to cover the other side.  "I didn't get to be

5,000 years old by chasing around after strange immortals, you know,"

Methos mumbled.

Shaking his head, Methos moved cautiously toward the mausoleum, ending with

his back against one wall.  The warning flare of presence hummed along his

nerves again and he cursed inventively under his breath.  If figured, of

course.  With the exception of two dinners with Amanda, he hadn't

encountered a single immortal the entire year MacLeod had been away from

Paris.  Now, not ten minutes after they'd met, they were both skulking

around the Paris cemetery at a ridiculously early hour of the morning, very

likely to encounter who knew what.  A bit guiltily, Methos glanced over his

shoulder to be sure he was out of Mac's line of sight and then reached for

his sword.  He compromised, settling for gripping the sword in his left

hand, blade down.  It was hardly a recommended attack posture, but it made

him feel a little less naked as he inched toward the edge of the

mausoleum.  A hand's span from the corner he shifted the sword silently to

his right hand and pivoted on his right foot, stepping clear of the

building in one fluid movement, sword up in a purely defensive gesture.

Not completely unexpectedly, he found himself face to face with a tall

red-headed man whose sword was definitely **not** in a defensive posture,

and his mind registered two facts as the other's sword came down in a

blurred swipe that was quite obviously intended to separate his head from

his shoulders.  His first thought was that he half-recognized the man

without being able to place him or the cause for his murderous intent; the

second was the irresistible sense that **he** was not who the man had

thought to be encountering, and that meant that he had once again blundered

into one of MacLeod's battles.  Not that it mattered--once the battle was

engaged, his opponent's face lost its surprised look and turned ruddy with

barely contained fury, echoed by the reckless lunge and slash of his sword

as he drove Methos back, the oldest immortal's reluctance to fight on holy

ground reducing him to a block and scramble retreat.

His attacker advanced on him furiously, strength and adrenaline driving the

older man back, coupled with the need--at least on Methos' part--to avoid a

lethal fight on holy ground.  Seeing the Highlander round the corner of the

mausoleum at a dead run, Methos shouted, "MacLeod!  Do something!"

Sliding to an uncertain halt on the frosty ground, MacLeod's dark eyes

widened in disbelief.  The Watchers' histories stated that the last

beheading of an immortal on holy ground had coincided rather too closely

with the eruption of Vesuvius and the burial of Pompeii for comfort, and he

couldn't begin to imagine what the results might be in suburban, modern day

Paris.  More, there was something so familiar--

"Warren?" he asked uncertainly, suddenly frozen in place.  //Warren

Cochrane?//

"MacLeod!" Methos yelled.  He was doing his best to stay out of Cochrane's

way, warding off blows with his own sword without actually attacking the

other.

MacLeod lunged forward, catching Cochrane in a full-body tackle.  He had

intended to hit Cochrane hard enough to force him to drop his sword, but

Warren's fury had locked his hand around the sword's hilt in a determined

grip.  MacLeod's tackle drove Cochrane forward, sword firmly in hand,

abruptly lengthening the other man's reach by several feet.  His face

buried in the back of Cochrane's coat, MacLeod winced as they collided with

Methos, Cochrane's sword ramming home in the older immortal's gut.

"Oh, shit," Methos gasped, curling spasmodically around Cochrane's blade as

MacLeod and Cochrane's combined momentum drove it completely through his

abdomen.

Sick with realization, Mac scrambled to his feet.  "Methos--"

Free of MacLeod's weight, Cochrane stumbled to his feet as well, jerking

upward and back on his sword as he rose.  Methos' face contorted in agony,

his breath hissing out through clenched teeth as Cochrane wrenched the

blade out of his belly.  His sword hand spasming uncontrollably, Methos'

heavier blade fell to the ground.

"Methos--" Mac said again.  He stood for a moment, posed to pursue the

fleeing Cochrane, then sank to his knees beside his friend instead,

cradling the older immortal against his chest, gently probing the killing

wound.

"Great, MacLeod," Methos muttered.  "Just great."  He coughed, the taste of

blood in his mouth, and tried again to curl into a tight ball around the

agony in his gut.

"I'm sorry," Mac said, knowing how hopelessly inadequate it sounded.

Methos nodded, pressing his forehead into Mac's upper arm as the younger

immortal drew him closer.  "Was it Cochrane?" Methos asked in a whisper.

"Yes."

"The one who killed his student."

"Yes," Mac said, his voice tight.  "The one who killed his student."

The older immortal went still in his arms then, eyes closing with his last

breath.  Mac tightened his arms about Methos' body as the ground beneath

them began to vibrate rapidly.  **Earthquake**, Mac thought automatically,

followed immediately by the thought:  **In Paris?** The rumbling increased

to bone-rattling proportions and Mac watched in fascination as a three-inch

crack appeared in the base of the marble mausoleum perhaps eight feet away

and worked its way upward, widening and splitting off in several

directions, like a lightning bolt etched into the stone.  An instant later

it was echoed by a blinding lightning strike seemingly just overhead,

echoed immediately by a roll of thunder that seemed to go on forever.  Mac

jumped in startled reaction as a bolt of lightning lanced into the ground

less than a foot in front of him, narrowly missing Methos' left knee.

Another followed it, heralding an abrupt downpour from what had been, only

moments before, a glowering but hardly ominous winter sky.

Mac leaned over Methos, shielding him from the rain as well as he could

with his own body, rising to his knees momentarily with Methos' body snug

in the crook of his left arm while he tugged the thick, white wool of his

greatcoat over both of them, warding off the worst of the rain.  That done,

he sank back into a sitting position on the lawn, trying to get

comfortable.

It wasn't as if he lacked entertainment.  Without warning a spectacular

alabaster grave monument in the shape of a guardian angel crashed to the

surrounding walkway and broke into several pieces while he watched.

Elsewhere, several smaller headstones sank into the ground, coming to rest

at odd angles, half-buried in the trembling earth.  There was a pronounced

rumbling somewhere behind him and, as he turned, he saw a manhole cover in

the street beyond the cemetery's gates thrown skyward by a blast

of--what?--natural gas, perhaps?  Part of the city's underground lines

erupting from the uncertain quaking beneath them?  MacLeod cringed

instinctively as the manhole cover crashed to the street with a metallic

clang and rolled off, coming to a wobbly rest against one curb.

How long he sat in the pouring rain he wasn't sure.  Immortal healing

varied and Methos seemed to heal more quickly than most, possibly as a

result of having survived 5,000-plus years.  Still, it seemed a very long

time before the oldest immortal went stiff in Mac's arms and drew that

first, terrible breath, green-gold eyes flying open.  In the meantime he

had missed a rather spectacular freak lightning storm and one wall of the

mausoleum tumbling to the ground directly in front of them.

Was it just coincidence, Mac wondered, that the rain stopped and the last

tremulous shaking of the ground faded as Methos levered himself up,

struggling for an easy breath as he rolled onto all fours, still swaying

slightly?  A moment later, coughing and clutching his chest, Methos

regained his feet.  Standing, MacLeod surveyed the damage in their

immediate vicinity.  In addition to the collapsed wall of the mausoleum,

there was at least one downed tree some fifty yards off, and any number of

toppled headstones in evidence.  The wrought iron gates leading into the

cemetery had been damaged, too, and hung askew on their hinges.

Methos was involved in a more personal examination, rubbing his

blood-slickened abdomen gingerly as the pain eased and the wound finished

healing.  "Damn, you're hard on a guy's wardrobe, MacLeod," he commented,

and Mac shifted his attention from the destruction around them to Methos,

who was examining the ruins of his clothing.  They were both soaked from

the rain, but the knees and lower legs of Methos' khaki slacks were filthy

with mud and strained with grass where he had rolled onto his hands and

knees.  What had previously been a rather expensive cream and tan-flecked

sweater was now soaked in blood, and when Methos pulled the sweater away

from his belly it became apparent there was a large hole in the garment

front.  "This was mohair," he complained, looking at MacLeod.

Mac shrugged, fighting down a grin.  "It still is," he pointed out.  Methos

shot him a look that warned against the laughter he felt bubbling up inside

and Mac looked quickly away.

"Has it ever occurred to you that your life is like a runaway freight

train, MacLeod?" Methos demanded.  He sounded a bit irritated.

An unmistakable snort of laughter came from MacLeod's nose and compressed

lips.  He felt like a kid being lectured by his older brother.  Of course,

he thought, very few people had brothers as old as Methos, and the thought

tickled him.  And after everything Methos had put **him** through in the

last several years, it wasn't as if he had a lot of room to talk.  MacLeod

rubbed his hand over his mouth and thought hard about something else.  Like

Warren Cochrane.  Maybe he could convince Methos it was hysteria, or

post-traumatic stress.  No, probably not.

The eyes MacLeod turned on Methos a moment later were gleaming with barely

suppressed laughter.  "It's good to see you, too, Methos," he said

solemnly, but it was too much.  He started to laugh, though Methos'

eyebrows climbed on the fair forehead until they nearly disappeared under

the short crop of bangs the rain had plastered to his skin.  It was too

funny.  Mac pulled Methos into a quick hug, transferring a portion of the

mud and blood and grass stains to his own clothing in the process.

Whatever the old man might be thinking, it really **was** good to see him

again.

"Come on," Mac said, releasing Methos.  "I'll buy you breakfast."  He

figured he owed him at least that much.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Tongues of Men and Angels, Chapter 2

by Cameron Dial

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

        Joe Dawson shook his head in amazement, listening to the television

news anchor going on about the unprecedented earthquake that had awakened

many Parisians that morning, himself included.  He'd lived in Paris off and

on over the last two decades as Duncan MacLeod's Watcher, and he'd never

heard of such a thing.  The city was in an uproar, of course--reports were

coming in of structural damage both minor and not-so-minor, of people

trapped in elevators, partial power outages, Metro lines shut down, school

closings and the like.  It was the craziest thing he'd ever heard of, he

thought, shaking his head as he managed his cane in one hand and his

breakfast plate in the other, choosing a red-topped table within easy range

of the boob tube mounted on the wall.  Before settling in he filled a cup

from the coffee maker he'd started while his eggs cooked, sipping carefully

to test the coffee's temperature as he carried it back to his table, laying

his cane across the table top and lowering himself into the chair.  He had

a leisurely morning planned, just breakfast and a few entries to MacLeod's

chronicles, followed by a call to his daughter and fellow Watcher, Amy.

The subdued sound of the newscaster in the background would be just enough

to keep him company, but not enough to distract him from his work.

Spearing a forkful of scrambled eggs with his left hand, he pecked at his

laptop computer's keyboard with his right index finger.  Typing with one

finger might be less than efficient--not that he was the world's greatest

typist to begin with--but he had learned a long time ago it was important

to have your priorities straight if you were going to combine work with

breakfast.  He was reaching for his coffee when the door opened.  He

turned, ready to tell any would-be patrons the bar was closed.  Instead,

his eyes widened first at the sight of MacLeod and Methos walking in

together as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, and then, as

it registered, at the stained and mud-soaked khaki slacks clinging to

Methos' legs and the gaping hole in the sweater he wore beneath his open

coat.

"What the hell happened to you?" Joe demanded.

"Just fine, Joe, and how are you?" Methos responded with mock cheerfulness,

pulling off his coat and tossing it across the back of a chair.  He plopped

himself down on what had been, until about a year ago, his usual stool at

the bar.

"I should have known better," Joe muttered, shaking his head.  He turned a

questioning look on MacLeod instead.  "Mac?"

"Thanks, Joe, I think I will," MacLeod responded.  He had draped his coat

over the bar, the white wool covered in mud and in bad need of dry

cleaning.  MacLeod crossed the floor easily and snagged a strip of bacon

from Joe's plate as he walked past the table, asking Methos, "How do you

want your eggs?"

"Omelets?" Methos suggested.

"Fine."  Mac rounded the corner of the bar and pushed through the single

swinging door to the kitchen beyond, disappearing momentarily.  Purposeful

sounds came from the kitchen through the cut-out service window adjoining

it to the rear of the bar and then Mac's face appeared in the opening.

"You're about out of green pepper, Joe," he said, cleaver in hand.

Joe was on his feet and moving around the bar in the stiff, swinging-gait

imposed on him by his dual prostheses and cane.  "I'll make a note," he

growled as he pushed the swinging door open and peered into the kitchen.

MacLeod had a small assortment of vegetables laid out on the counter for

chopping and was wiping down the stove's stainless steel cooking surface as

it heated, steam rising from the surface as a water trail sizzled into

nothing.  Half a dozen eggs waited in a blue bowl to one side of the stove,

along with what was left of the bacon from the refrigerator.

"Finding everything?" Joe asked.

Mac turned boy scout eyes on him.  "Sure, Joe," he said.  "Got any English

muffins?"

An alarm bell went off in the back of Joe's mind and he turned 180 degrees,

the door swinging behind him as he turned back to the bar and his rapidly

cooling breakfast.  "Hey!" he shouted at Methos.  The older immortal was

hunched over the computer's keyboard, efficiently pecking away with **all

**of **his** fingers, eyes rapidly scanning the information scrolling on

the screen in front of him.

It was amazing how quickly a man on prostheses could move when he was

really pissed, Methos thought as the older-appearing man slammed the small

computer's lid shut, nearly taking off several of Methos' fingers in the

process.  "Get your butt out here, MacLeod," Joe called, eyes locked on the

oldest immortal.  "If you want information out of me you can damn well

**ask** for it."

MacLeod sighed and switched off the stove, emerging somewhat sheepishly

from the kitchen.  He met Methos' shrug with one of his own.

"I told you it wouldn't work," Methos said.

"It was worth a try," the Highlander responded.

Joe reopened the computer, turning it so he could see the screen.  "Warren

Cochrane?" he asked, looking from MacLeod to Methos.

"We . . . um . . . ran into him this morning," Methos said.  "At the

cemetery," he elaborated, sitting down in Joe's chair.  He helped himself

to the remaining strip of bacon.

"The cemetery," Joe said.  "The news said this morning's earthquake was

centered on the cemetery."  He watched the two immortals exchange looks and

sighed, looking down at his breakfast.  The scrambled eggs had turned

rubbery, and the toast was no doubt cold by now.  "Would one of you like to

tell me what happened at the cemetery and how it's related to this

morning's earthquake?"

MacLeod said nothing, so Joe turned his gaze on Methos, who was polishing

the unused silverware with the hem of his sweater.  "Methos?" Joe asked.

He snatched the knife away from the immortal to get his attention.

"It wasn't **my** fault," Methos said.  "**He** attacked **me**."

"Mac attacked you?"  Not that Methos wasn't down right irritating at

times--

"Not Mac," Methos said.  "Cochrane."

"Wait a minute," Joe snapped.  "You fought on holy ground?"

"It wasn't much of a fight, actually," Methos replied.  "I was mostly

trying to get away.  Besides, he was after MacLeod--"

"You don't know that for sure," MacLeod interjected.

"Oh, right," Methos shot back.  "Anyway, Mac interrupted the fight before

it went too far--"

"**MacLeod** interrupted the fight?" Joe demanded.  It was a cardinal rule

of the Game that no immortal interrupt a fight after it was engaged, and

MacLeod was an absolute stickler for the rules.

"I didn't actually interrupt the fight," Mac protested as the Watcher

turned a shocked look on him.

"Not much, you didn't," Methos said.  "I'm the one who was killed,

remember."

**Well, that explained the sweater, at least.**

**        **"I didn't stab you--"

"Same difference, MacLeod.  If you hadn't knocked Cochrane into me, it

wouldn't have happened."

Joe squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between his

thumb and forefinger.  "Shut up!" he said, raising his voice to put a stop

to the bickering.  Looking a little surprised, Mac and Methos subsided.

"Sheesh--like a couple of kids!" Joe muttered.  He eyed MacLeod.  "And

what, exactly, do you want from me?"

Mac shrugged.  "Information on Cochrane."

Joe just stood there for a minute, staring at him.

"How long's he been in Paris?" Mac asked.

"Off and on for nearly three months," Methos said, "which means he had time

to follow you or have you followed, so he knew when you'd likely be at the

cemetery."

Joe pinned him to the chair with a look.

"Just pretend I'm not here," Methos suggested.

"He attacked you just like that, on holy ground," Joe said to Mac.

"He attacked Methos, not me."

"He was **after** you," Methos insisted.  They both looked at him.  "Well,

excuse me," he snapped, "but after 5,000 years I can tell when someone's

after my head and when I just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong

time.  He was expecting MacLeod, not me."

"He's probably right, you know," Joe said.  "You didn't exactly part on the

best of terms."

             . . . The old inn was dark, occupied only by Warren

     Cochrane, Duncan MacLeod, and ghosts that whispered of days long

     past.

     "What happened here?" Mac asked.

     "I don't know."  Warren's reply was murmured, barely audible.

     "You were here with Andrew, your student," MacLeod said.  "You

     were here and Andrew died.  What happened?"  His tone had

     hardened, growing demanding.

     Cochrane's face was anguished, his voice the same.  "I don't

     know!" he shouted.  "He was like a son to me!"

     "You killed him!" Mac shouted.  "You killed your own student!"

     "I know!"  Warren cried.  "I know what you're thinking--only a

     monster could do such a thing.  Well, if I'm a monster, slay me!"

     he shouted.  One fist tangled in the stuff of his shirt, twisting

     it in self-loathing.  "What thing on earth could be more evil

     than me?" Cochrane demanded.  "Could anything be more deserving

     of death?  You should have let me forget!"

     Furious with pain, he lunged at MacLeod, sword drawn.

     "I don't want to fight you!" MacLeod shouted, turning Warren's

     blade away with his own.

     "Why not?" Cochrane demanded.  He struck out repeatedly, trying

     to force MacLeod to defend himself--no, Mac realized, not to

     defend himself . . . in an effort to force MacLeod to fight him

     and to take his head.

     "Don't do this!" Mac pleaded, twisting away from Cochrane into

     the shadows.

     Desperate, Cochrane scanned the room with his flashlight's beam,

     afraid that Duncan had left him truly alone with his fears and

     himself.  Terrified of what the dark might hold--of his own

     darkness--he plunged into the next room and found Mac's abandoned

     flashlight, rolling from side to side on the wooden floorboards.

     Warren charged further into the room and at that moment MacLeod

     stepped from the shadows, his katana slicing deep into Warren's

     abdomen.

     Groaning, Warren sank to his knees.  Tears brightened his eyes as

     he looked up, even in the gloom of this place.  "End it,

     MacLeod," he begged.  "End it now."

     "I won't take your life," Mac answered tightly.

     "Please," Cochrane whispered.  "I cannot live with this."

     "You're going to have to," MacLeod said.  He turned his back on

     his friend and walked away. . . .

        "Damn," Methos said suddenly.  "What time is it?"

Automatically, Joe and MacLeod looked at the wall clock over the bar.

"Just after eight," Joe said.  "Wh--"

"I have an 8:45 class and I can't go looking like **this**."  He rose from

the chair quickly and headed for the pay phone in the hall.

**Class**, MacLeod thought as the older immortal shoved money into the

phone's coin slot and punched the numbered pads.  He had almost forgotten

Methos' alias as Adam Pierson, perpetual grad student, and felt an

unreasoning flash of irritation at it resurfacing now.  "Can't you skip

class, for heaven's sake?" he demanded.  "Tell the instructor you're busy."

Methos spared him a long-suffering look as his call was answered and he

split his attention between MacLeod and the secretary on the other end of

the line, switching from French to English and back again without so much

as a blink.  "I **am** the instructor, MacLeod," he said, one hand

partially covering the phone's mouthpiece.  "I graduated."

Mac turned to Joe.  "Graduated?" he mouthed.

"With honors," Joe said.  "Dr. Adam Pierson, Ph.D. in History and

Linguistics, at your service.  Kind of."

"Merci," Methos was saying into the phone.  "They've closed the university

for the next three days to check for structural damage," he said.  He used

the phone's disconnected receiver like a wagging finger, aimed at Mac.

"You know, the world doesn't stop just because you go on holiday, MacLeod.

The rest of us have real lives, too."

The telephone rang before Mac could respond and for a moment the two

immortals looked uncertainly at the receiver in Methos' hand before Joe

said, "It's mine," and pulled the cell phone from its holster at his belt.

"Yeah, Dawson," he said a bit gruffly into the phone.  As he listened to

the caller, Methos softly hung up the pay phone and walked back into the

bar's main room to stand next to MacLeod.  "He's right here," Joe said,

eyes flickering to Methos and then Mac.  "You did the right thing," Joe

said.  "I'll tell him."

"Now what?" Mac asked.

"There's been a fire on the barge," Joe said.  "The police are on their way

now."

MacLeod was already in motion, snatching his coat off the bar.  "You

coming?" he asked Methos over his shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Right behind you," Joe said.  He snatched up the portable computer and

pivoted, quickly opening the concealed safe behind the bar and shoving the

laptop inside.  Slapping the safe shut, he spun the dial, securing the

tumblers.  Hurrying, he nearly collided with Methos, who stood blocking the

doorway.

"Who was on the phone?" Methos asked.

"What?" Joe asked.  He tried to push past the immortal, but Methos was

planted solidly in front of the door.

"I said, 'Who was on the phone?' "  The normally green-gold eyes were

darker in the bar's subdued light and it was clear he wasn't moving until

he got an answer to his question.

"A Watcher," Joe said shortly.

"But **you're** Mac's Watcher," Methos pointed out calmly, "and you're

here."

A horn sounded twice from the parking area outside and Joe tried to step

around the immortal, reaching for the door.  Methos simply put his weight

against the door.  "Joe," he said, "do you have a Watcher on me?"

"Not **now**, Methos," Joe objected.

"Yes, **now**, Joe," the immortal replied.  He looked the other man up and

down for a moment and then locked his eyes on Joe's.  "You **do** have a

watcher on me," he said abruptly.  "Your daughter Amy."

Joe ran one hand through his hair.  "Methos, it just **happened**," he

said, plunging in before Methos could draw breath for whatever was coming.

"She identified you as having taken Morgan's quickening," he explained.

"Not by name--she listed you as an unknown immortal with a general

description of height, apparent physical age, that sort of thing.  All by

the book.  One of the pictures of Morgan in her closing report included a

partial shot of your car.  Apparently he'd been watching your place.

Someone blew the image up and got half the license plate."  He shrugged.

"After that one of the bright boys in research put two and two together."

"Research," Methos said.

"Yeah," Joe said.  "Kind of ironic, huh?"

Methos sighed.  He'd probably been identified by someone he'd known for the

last dozen years or so, someone he'd worked with when **he'd** been a

Watcher.  For a moment he was almost amused, wondering what sort of ripples

**that** had caused around headquarters, although he'd never let Joe know

it.  **Yes, ironic was the right word for it.**

**        **Outside, MacLeod's horn blared impatiently.

"I'm sorry, Methos," Joe said.  " 'Adam Pierson' has been added to the list

of identified immortals and since Amy was the first Watcher to document

your immortality . . . well, I'm sorry."

Wordlessly, Methos turned and pulled the door open, walking out into the

morning sunlight.  Joe followed him, pulling the bar's door shut and

ramming the key into place hurriedly to lock up.  Methos climbed into the

back seat of Mac's black Citroen without speaking, leaving the front

passenger seat for Joe, who watched the other's profile for any sign of

emotion as he walked around the car and settled himself into the front

seat.  Joe levered himself and his cane half around on the seat so he could

look at the oldest immortal before buckling his seat belt.

The silence between Joe and Methos was positively thick and, despite his

worry over the barge, MacLeod found himself looking irresistibly between

his two passengers as he drove.  "Now what's wrong?" he demanded.

"Ask the professor," Joe muttered.

"Methos?" Mac frowned as he studied the tight line of Methos' mouth through

the rear view mirror.  When there was no response, Mac glanced at Joe

again.

"He's mad at me and he's pouting," Joe said, irritation plain in his voice.

"I am **not** pouting!" Methos snapped.  "It may interest you to know that

I haven't decided how I feel yet--"

"You're mad because we've had a relatively green Watcher on you for a month

now and you didn't notice," Joe said.

"And exactly when were you planning to tell me?" Methos demanded.

"Who says I was?  You may not have noticed this either, Methos, but it

isn't my job to tell immortals who their Watchers are."

"And we all know you're a sterling example of a Watcher--"

"Oh, don't start **that** old song again--"

MacLeod hit the brakes abruptly, making them both slide forward on their

seats, bracing themselves against the car seat and dashboard while the car

bounced slightly in its tracks and horns blared around them.  Startled,

they both looked at the Highlander.  "Enough!" he barked.  "I'm tired of

listening to the two of you!"  He looked from one to the other.  "Please,"

he said, forcing calm into his tone.  "One problem at a time."  Glum

silence filled the car until MacLeod swung off the main street and onto the

riverside quay where the barge was docked.  The sun had burned away the

clouds that had filled the sky earlier in the morning and Notre Dame was

magnificent against a brilliant blue sky.  The view was marred only by the

police and fire crew swarming over the barge that was Mac's home.

MacLeod and Methos' long legs carried them quickly from the dockside up the

gangplank and onto the barge, where a young gendarme blocked their way.

They **did** look a bit disreputable in their damp and mud-splattered

clothing, Joe thought, watching the policeman's eyebrows rise as they

approached.  As Methos buttoned his coat over his ruined sweater and the

dried blood decorating it, the Highlander gripped the officer's upper arms

and lifted him momentarily off his feet, setting him bodily aside as he

stepped onto the deck.  A confrontation was avoided only when the furious

young man's superior appeared.

"MacLeod."

"Inspector Lebrun.  It's been a long time."

"Yes.  I'm sorry we had to meet again under these circumstances."  He

nodded to the young gendarme, ignoring the last, resentful glance the

officer shot in MacLeod's direction.  In the meantime, Joe had made his way

on board at his own, slower pace, and stood with his cane in one hand,

shaking his head at the near ruin surrounding them.

MacLeod had owned the barge for nearly thirty years.  Joe Dawson had been,

well, not much older than Richie Ryan the first time he'd stood at a

distance, Watching through binoculars as the unaging Scot sanded and

primed, painted and polished, a silent satisfaction seeming to emanate from

him as he tended to the chores of a man who chose to live on the water.  He

and Tessa had made their home here, and when Richie had returned to Paris

like the prodigal son, he had known he would find MacLeod here, whatever

else might have changed.  The barge had even belonged to Methos once a few

years ago--for about three days, as Joe recalled--but it had been Mac's

home, and the shuttered look on the Highlander's face as he looked around

said more about the loss he felt than any emotional outburst could have.

It was plainly arson, Lebrun explained; Mac and Methos nodded, having

already known as much.  An American couple on a rented cabin cruiser some

distance up the Seine had reported seeing a man jumping from the barge

minutes before the flames started.  There was nothing gradual about the

spread of the fire, either, the inspector continued--he pointed, indicating

several places where the blaze seemed to have started abruptly and

explosively, the burn pattern suggesting incendiaries of some sort.

Crunching glass splinters underfoot, Methos guessed Molotov cocktails.

Assuming Cochrane had sense enough to plan ahead of time, he had probably

procured them long before the run-in at the cemetery.  The man had most

likely been pitching them at the barge while he and MacLeod were raiding

the Watcher database via Joe's laptop computer.

"In a routine investigation I'd ask the barge owner if he had any enemies,"

Lebrun said.  There was the slightest suggestion of a smile to his mouth as

he asked, "I don't suppose you have anything you'd like to tell me?"

Neither MacLeod nor Methos said anything.

"No, I didn't think so," Lebrun continued.  He shook his head and watched

the Highlander walk away, then fixed his gaze on Methos.  "You could do

your friend a favor by telling me now who's behind this," he commented.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Inspector," Methos said mildly.

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" Lebrun asked.

Heading for the doorway that led to the barge's living area, Methos was

stopped by MacLeod's brawny hand, palm flat on his chest, preventing him

from stepping onto a wooden landing that was no longer there.

"Careful," Mac said.

Forewarned, Methos nodded and stepped down and in more cautiously.

The cream-colored paint on the inside walls was blistered and blackened,

peeling away to reveal the ship-grade steel beneath.  The little bit of

furniture that had survived MacLeod's "house cleaning" after Richie Ryan's

death was unsalvageable, and Methos was glad the Highlander had chosen to

store most of the things he had lived with in happier times.  At least the

most precious of his things had been spared this, and he wouldn't have to

face their loss on top of the deliberate destruction of his home.  Picking

their way through the rubble, it became clear that the worst damage was in

the center of what had been the barge's living area, amidships.  Overhead,

a double skylight had let sunshine into the barge's interior; now, the

half-dozen cedar beams that had supported the skylight and ceiling were

mostly burned through, and the glass had exploded in one of the skylights.

Two of the heavy beams had fallen inward and lay at crazy angles,

preventing easy passage.  The burned, box-like object at the far end of the

interior Methos finally identified as the wooden frame of MacLeod's bed,

realizing belatedly that the bedclothes had been lost to the fire.  What

was left of the mattress sagged in a limp "J" shape against one wall,

charred and water-sodden, blocking access to the barge's second exit.

MacLeod pushed open a porthole wordlessly and Methos shoved his hands into

his pockets.

"Had to be Cochrane," Methos said.

"Yeah.  D'you notice the wall?"

Methos looked around again, this time giving the living area more than

cursory attention.  Ah.  He saw it then--something had been scratched into

one metal wall, deeply enough to survive the blaze.  Well, he thought, why

not?  His own blade could have done the job easily enough, or Mac's.

Frowning, Methos stared at the wall.  Two rectangles, each attached to the

top of a pole of some sort, the poles crossed in an "X" shape.  Flags.

Racing flags?  Methos' stomach went cold at the thought.  "Did Lebrun see

this?" he asked.

MacLeod nodded.  "He doesn't miss much," he said.

Carefully, they picked their way back across the floor to the open

doorway.  There, Mac effortlessly hauled himself up and out onto the deck,

followed by Methos.

Joe Dawson stood at the gangplank, talking with a young woman who watched

them as they approached.  She was about medium-height, her build hard to

judge beneath the woolen coat she wore, the breeze tugging at her casual,

short-cropped auburn hair.  At a guess, Mac placed her in her late

twenties--the binoculars that dangled around her neck caught his attention

automatically, and he was unsurprised by the flash of blue he glimpsed on

the inside of one wrist before she shoved her hands into her pockets.  He

fixed his eyes on Dawson, waiting for an explanation.

"Amy Thomas, this is Duncan MacLeod.  Mac--Amy Thomas.  My daughter."

"Excuse me?"  The Highlander's dark brown eyes went wide.

"Yep," Methos said.  He seemed to be enjoying MacLeod's reaction.  "Like

father, like daughter."  He met Amy's eyes, raising both eyebrows, and Mac

watched a flush rise from her neck to color her face.  Joe cleared his

throat uncomfortably, but Amy put her chin up assertively, and--seemingly

in response--Methos smiled, half nodding.  "Right," he said.  "I'll be in

the car if anyone's interested."

"Um--Joe?" MacLeod prompted, attention divided between the older immortal

and Joe's . . . daughter.

"Look, do you mind if we save the details for another time?" Joe asked

wearily.

Two sets of gray-blue eyes looked at him.  "It was Amy on the phone," Mac

guessed.

"She's Adam's Watcher," Joe said, and Mac's eyes locked on his face at the

use of Methos' alias.  "She's the one who called the fire department."

"I saw you at the cemetery," Amy said, her gaze sliding toward Methos, now

slouched in the back seat of Mac's black Citroen.  "I saw Cochrane, too.

After the fight I watched you and Pierson get into your car, and assumed

you were coming here."  She flushed again.  "I guessed wrong.  I didn't

know what to do when Cochrane torched the barge, and I'd lost Pierson, so I

. . . I called the fire department and then I called Joe."  She shrugged.

"I'm glad you did," MacLeod said.  "Most Watchers would have just stood

by--after carefully recording the time and date of the incident, of

course," he added, a slight smile curving his mouth.  What was it Joe had

said so long ago?  **Sometimes you have to do more than just watch.**  "I'm

glad you subscribe to your father's views on noninterference."

Amy arched an eyebrow.  "I wouldn't go that far, Mr. MacLeod," she said

calmly.  "Let's just say I had a rather unusual introduction to field

work."  She glanced toward the car again.  "It made me a bit . . . unsure

. . . of where I stand."  She looked at Joe.  "I'd better go," she said.

"Thanks, Amy.  Call me in a day or two, will you?"  Joe asked, and Amy

nodded.  She slipped away with one last glance in the direction of the

Citroen.

"Let me take care of a few things here, Joe, and we'll run you back to the

bar," MacLeod said.

"Yeah, thanks, Mac--no hurry."  He watched as MacLeod stepped back on board

the barge, and then frowned at the sight of yet another police car pulling

up beside the Citroen.  Noticing the new arrivals, Methos climbed out of

the car and stood watching as two men in civilian clothes moved toward the

barge.  Meeting Methos' eyes, Joe shrugged as the men passed him on the

gangplank.

**Great**, Joe thought. ** More red tape and bureaucrats.  **He could hear

flat British accents coloring schoolboy French as the two spoke to the

young officer at the entry to the barge.  Methos trotted over from the car

as the gendarme raised one arm, pointing toward MacLeod, who was talking

again with Lebrun near the stern.  Curious, Joe made his way up the

gangplank to the barge, Methos behind him.

"You're Duncan MacLeod?" one of the men asked.

Breaking off in the middle of a sentence, MacLeod turned and looked at the

new arrivals.  "That's right," he said.  He caught sight of Joe and Methos

over the taller man's shoulder, frown lines appearing between his

eyebrows.  "What's this about?"

"I'm Detective Chief Inspector Blont of New Scotland Yard," the older of

the two men said.  "This is Detective Sergeant Willis."

MacLeod barely glanced at the detective shields they produced; Inspector

Lebrun crossed his arms over his chest, his face setting in the look of a

man who was about to have his authority challenged.  He didn't look as if

he liked it much.

Willis flipped his ID shut and shoved it back into the pocket of his suit

coat, stepping forward.  "Duncan MacLeod, you're under arrest for the

murder of Logan Holyfield," he said.

"What?"

"That's crazy!" Joe blurted.

Too surprised to resist, MacLeod let Sergeant Willis spin him half around

and cuff him even as he protested, "I don't know anyone named Logan

Holyfield!"

"You'll probably want to call an attorney, Mr. MacLeod," the inspector said

mildly.  He glanced at Lebrun, having identified him intuitively as his

opposite number on French soil.  "You'll be held in jail here until the

French authorities permit your removal to stand trial in London," he said,

meeting Lebrun's eyes.

"Why London?" Joe demanded.

"Scene of the crime," Sergeant Willis replied.  "You were recently in

London, were you not, Mr. MacLeod?"

"About three weeks ago, for Claudia Jardine's performance--" Mac said.

"And do you always travel to London just for the opera?" Blont asked.

"She's a concert pianist," MacLeod said with exaggerated patience, "and a

personal friend."

"I see," Blont said calmly.  "Then she'll have told you that Mr. Holyfield

was stalking her?"  He raised a hand before MacLeod could answer, saying,

"Perhaps you'd best not answer that.  We'll need to search you, of course,"

he added casually, nodding to Willis.

The police sergeant ran his hands expertly over Mac's shoulders and arms

through the thick wool of the Highlander's coat, freezing when his hand

brushed against something hard under MacLeod's left arm.

Mac closed his eyes in resignation and Joe saw Methos turn away, running

one hand through his hair.  Sick to his stomach, Joe realized what had

happened.

"Well, now," Blont said.  "What have we here?"

Curiosity turned to astonishment as Sergeant Willis carefully relieved

MacLeod of the katana, eyes widening appreciably at the 40-inch blade.

Lebrun's face was carefully neutral, revealing nothing as he stared at the

Highlander.  The uniformed French police stood around looking a bit

embarrassed, as if they should have known somehow that MacLeod was walking

around with a sword on him.  Not for the first time, Joe was glad there was

no law in France against carrying a concealed weapon.  Still, it **looked**

bad.

"If you don't mind, Chief Inspector--" Lebrun said, one eyebrow raised.

"Of course," the Brit said.  "Sergeant Willis, the Inspector will accompany

us to the station."

"As you say, sir," Willis responded.  He prodded MacLeod in the back,

heading him down the gangplank and toward the police car, nodding politely

to Lebrun.

"How was this--Holyfield--killed?" Joe called as Inspector Blont stepped

past him.

The inspector half turned, fixing a colorless look on Dawson.  "He was

beheaded," Blont said, "with a rather sharp object."

Joe sighed, closing his eyes as Methos joined him.

"You had to ask," Methos muttered.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Tongues of Men and Angels, Chapter 3

by Cameron Dial

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trip back to Le Blues Bar was worse even than Joe had imagined it would

be.  Since Mac had his car keys on him when he was arrested, they were left

stranded at the barge.  Methos, not surprisingly, was in favor of

hot-wiring the Citroen.  Visualizing the Highlander's indignation at the

invasion of his property, Joe firmly vetoed the notion.  In the end he

called Amy and sheepishly asked her to drive them--something she was

reluctant to do since it put her in direct proximity with Adam Pierson for

the second time in one day.

"Oh, come now," Adam said.  "Just think how much easier I'll be to Watch."

Amy flushed again and turned in mute accusation toward Joe.

"He guessed!" Joe burst out.

"Just one big, happy family," Methos said cheerily, earning a scathing look

from father and daughter alike.

It took an additional ten minutes of whispered conference to soothe Amy's

ruffled feathers and prevail on her scruples.  She finally agreed,

primarily because it was obvious that Joe's artificial legs were beginning

to pain him, but the wall of silence she put up between herself and

Methos--**Adam**, Joe reminded himself--made the drive unpleasant.  Methos,

of course, made matters worse by insisting they go to the cemetery so he

could pick up his own car.

As soon as Methos had driven away, Amy rounded on Joe.  "Look, MacLeod I

can understand," she said.  "I mean, there's a lot of personal history

between you two--but how did you get mixed up with Pierson, too?"

"Come on, Amy," Joe protested.  "I've known the guy for years.  He was a

Watcher, for heaven's sake!  He was one of the chief researchers on the

Methos Chronicles long before he ever crossed paths with MacLeod."

"After Salzer was killed by Kalas," Amy said.  Joe nodded, wondering how

much longer he could tell the truth without lying in the process.  "How did

you find out Pierson was immortal?" she asked.

"MacLeod told me."

"So Pierson was already immortal when MacLeod met him back in--what, '94?"

She made a face.  "Joe, we know so little about him!  His **chronicle**, if

you want to call it that, is less than a hundred pages, and most of that is

interviews with the few Watchers he worked with here in Paris, his

recruiting background investigation, that sort of thing."  She went on,

obviously reciting from memory:  "He was raised in Cardiff, Wales, from age

twelve by a maternal aunt.  His father, Bryant Michael Pierson, was an

engineer, killed in a mining accident.  His mother, Lucile Alcott Pierson,

died of breast cancer in St. Stephen's Hospital, Cardiff, when he was

three--totally fictitious, of course, but it got past the Watchers'

background check, so you can bet it's well constructed.

"His 'aunt'--Elizabeth Eleanor Alcott--is even in the Cardiff phone book.

I know," she said.  "I called the number.  She sounds like a very sweet

lady--probably knits him a sweater every Christmas."  She turned the key in

the ignition and pulled into traffic, pounding her fist in irritation

against the steering wheel.  "Damn it, Joe!  When was he born?  **Really**

born?  His official biography puts him in his early thirties, but Morgan

had a grudge against him, so their paths almost have to have crossed

sometime before."

"Hard to say," Joe told her.  "Adam has such a charming personality, he

could have pissed Morgan off almost anytime."

"No," Amy said.  "Morgan's grudge went deeper than that.  He really hated

Pierson."

Joe looked away momentarily and then sighed.  "Look, Amy," he said, "if

you're frustrated because Adam's chronicle is incomplete, or wrong, or

whatever, take care of it.  You're his Watcher.  But don't do it out of

vanity or because he embarrassed you back there--do it because it's the

right thing to do."

"What about the speculation that he's MacLeod's student?" she asked.  "They

**are** friends--that much is obvious, though for the life of me I can't

figure out why.  As far as I know, this morning was the first time they've

seen each other since MacLeod killed Ryan."  She shook her head.  "Uh-uh.

I don't care what they say about MacLeod--he's not the type to leave a

student unprotected for over a year, no matter what happened between him

and Richie Ryan.  And the one time I did see Pierson fight--"  She broke

off, her natural honesty making her amend the statement.  "Okay, we didn't

actually **see** the fight, but Morgan had a reputation for fighting dirty,

and Pierson made short work of him.  I mean, Pierson's flip, even insolent

most of the time, and he bats those great big eyes at you, but I wouldn't

put a whole lot past him, and he doesn't act like someone who needs

protection--"

Joe was still digesting the **great big eyes** part when Amy pulled into

the narrow parking area in front of the bar.  Adam's Range Rover was parked

in a spot reserved for employees, but there was no sign of the immortal.

"Look," Joe said.  "Let me give you a bit of advice.  Where Adam Pierson is

concerned, what you see is almost **never** what you get.  Watch your step

with him and don't get over confident.  And don't ever fool yourself into

thinking you know everything there is to know about him.  It'll never

happen."

"Should I tell headquarters he's identified me as his Watcher?" she asked,

grimacing.

"No!" Joe said more sharply than he'd intended to.

"Why?" Amy asked.  "You don't think my career could survive being

identified as a Watcher by two immortals in a row?"  She grinned ruefully,

and there was something in her expression that reminded him of the look

Methos got when he watched Duncan MacLeod come to a conclusion he knew the

Highlander wasn't particularly going to like.

"Adam identifying you--well, that was my fault," Joe said.  He looked

thoughtful.  "Besides, it could even work to our advantage."

"Because he owes you?" Amy asked, and for a moment Joe didn't know **what**

to say.

"Possibly," he finally admitted, although he couldn't have said why Adam

owed him, or even what.  He grinned, opening the car door and swinging his

artificial legs out, using his cane and one hand on the door frame for

support as he pushed to his feet.  He shut the car door and then leaned in

through the open window.  "Honey," he finally said, "eventually you learn

not to look a gift immortal in the mouth."

"Yeah, right," Amy said.  She shook her head.  "First Morgan and now

Pierson.  I really get the cream of the crop, don't I?" she asked.

Grinning, Joe shook his head slowly as he watched her drive away.

Joe didn't even bother reaching for his keys.  He figured the "cream of the

crop" had picked the lock and his suspicions were confirmed when the door

opened to a touch on the handle.  Methos had managed to get the safe open

without triggering the alarms, too--he was seated at the bar, hammering

away at the computer keyboard when Joe entered.  He had also taken time to

stop at his place and change clothes, faded blue jeans with slightly frayed

cuffs and a gray sweatshirt replacing this morning's khakis and sweater,

along with white running shoes--"Connor shoes," the Watchers called them.

A down-filled parka lay across the bar, an unnatural stiffness to its folds

indicating that it concealed Methos' heavy Ivanhoe blade.

"Get into the database yet?" Joe asked.

"Just about--" Methos answered, his voice trailing off.  A second later Joe

saw the Watcher emblem flash onto the screen and he grunted, shaking his

head.  Collecting his breakfast plate, Joe carried it back into the

kitchen, where he emptied the cold, uneaten food into the trash and set the

dirty plate in the deep, stainless steel sink.  Emerging from the kitchen,

he poured himself a cup of coffee, toasting Methos in the process.

"Let me know if you need the codes for the London headquarters."

"Oh, London's easy," Methos said.  "If you want hard, try Croatia

sometime.  Croatia and California--all those Silicon Valley types, always

upgrading the system."

Joe sipped his coffee but said nothing.  As an afterthought, he pointed the

remote control at the television and turned it off.

"Okay," Methos said into the resulting silence.  "Let's hope the Watchers

in London are better at filing reports on time than I ever was."  He tapped

away at the keys, filling the silence with a rhythmic, plastic sound.

"Here we go," he said.  "Claudia Jardine's Watcher was pleased to be

getting company.  You know Claudia doesn't even carry a sword?"  Joe

nodded, but Methos was too intent on the screen to notice.  He hit the

scroll button, scanning the text in front of him rapidly.  "Having Duncan

MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod in town was expected to add a bit of

excitement, and it looks like he didn't disappoint . . . did you know

MacLeod had a run in with another immortal while he was in London?"

"David Collier," Joe said.

Methos froze in mid-keystroke, eyes locking on Joe.  "You could have told

me," he said.

"But you were having so much fun," Joe said.

Methos just looked at him.  Reading from the screen, he summarized:

"Collier challenged Mac on the way back from a late supper.  Mac killed him

and the Watcher called in the bod squad to take care of the evidence, just

like you'd expect."  He looked up, meeting Joe's eyes.  So who's this Logan

Holyfield the police are talking about?"

"Not an immortal?" Joe asked.

"Not one I ever heard of," Methos muttered.  He cleared the computer screen

and typed in a stream of commands.  A moment later the computer spat out a

list that made Joe close his eyes in disbelief, but he said nothing.

"Hammond, Hanchett, Hancock--there's actually an immortal named John

Hancock?  Some people have no imagination.  Hannefield . . . Holliman,

Hovanek, Huang, Hutchison, Hyde--for heaven's sake, Joe, when was the last

time this thing was updated?  Martin Hyde's been dead for ages."  He

cleared the screen again and started punching in commands.

"Now what?" Joe asked.

"New Scotland Yard, if I can hack in."

"That doesn't strike you as a little extreme?"

"As opposed to what?  Letting MacLeod go to jail for murder?  You know

perfectly well it's a frame.  We know Cochrane torched the barge.  I'll lay

you odds he either killed Holyfield or had him killed."

"Whoa!  That's a bit of a leap, isn't it?  You've got no proof Cochrane was

even in London--"

"The Watcher database has him in Calais on the twenty-third.  It's thirty

minutes from Calais to England by the underground train.  All we have to do

is track his movements for twenty-four hours.  Here we go--" He broke off

as the computer screen changed, hands hovering over the keyboard.  His long

fingers punched in an occasional code, then hesitated, then typed again.

"Holyfield died the same night Collier did--the twenty-third, shortly

before midnight.  The body was found near the Orangerie the following

morning by tourists.  Bet that livened up a few vacations. . . . Want to

bet Holyfield's vital statistics are a close match for Collier's?" Methos

asked.  "Same hair and eye color, same height, same apparent physical age.

It's the perfect set up."  He scanned the screen again.  "Oh, hell--there

was a witness."

"What?"  Joe put his coffee down and came around the bar to look over

Methos' shoulder.

"Thomas Wheaton . . . Shropshire address.  He told police his car broke

down and he was waiting for a tow when he heard a shout and scuffling.  He

arrived just in time to see Holyfield lose his head.  He didn't report any

unusual lighting effects, so I'd guess Holyfield wasn't immortal.  A police

sketch artist completed a drawing from Wheaton's description."  He punched

the scroll button, bringing up a digitized scan of the sketch.  "Could

easily be our boy MacLeod."

"Damn it--if I'd gone to London with Mac this wouldn't be happening!"

Methos pushed the computer aside and leaned back, elbows on the bar.  "Oh?"

he asked.  "And how do you figure that?  I suppose **you** could have

killed Holyfield and then **you'd** be the one under arrest."  He shook his

head.  "Uh-uh, Joe.  This is MacLeod's doing.  He should have taken

Cochrane's head four years ago."

"So now what?" Joe asked.

"Later today or tomorrow morning, you make some phone calls and get Claudia

Jardine to alibi MacLeod.  It wouldn't hurt if her Watcher would come

forward, too."  He grinned wickedly.  "Or would that be against the rules?"

he asked.  "Something to do with noninterference?"

"Smart ass," Joe commented.  "Why the delay?"

"Because the safest place for MacLeod at the moment is behind bars."

Joe sighed.  He couldn't argue with Methos' logic, but he didn't like the

idea of Mac sitting in jail, either.  "And what are you going to be doing

in the meantime?" he asked.

Methos said nothing.

"You're going to challenge Cochrane," Joe said.  It sounded like an

accusation.

The immortal shrugged.  "You don't honestly think he'll stop at setting

MacLeod up for murder, do you?  He killed on holy ground, Joe--"

"And this has nothing to do with the fact that you're the one he killed."

"What?  You think my **pride** is at stake?  Joe, he killed on holy

ground.  It's the one rule none of us can be allowed to break.  Besides,

you can't interfere--"

"Hold it right there, pal!" Joe grated.  "I'm not about to let you sit

there and maneuver me into helping Mac one minute and then wave

'noninterference' under my nose in the next breath.  You don't get to have

it both ways!"

"And if I don't go after him?  Don't you get it, Joe?" Methos snapped.

"Cochrane believes he lost **everything** because of MacLeod--his home, his

friends, the woman he loved.  He became a fugitive when he killed his

student.  He's still wanted by the French police for murder.  He means to

do the same to MacLeod.  That's why he torched the barge.  It's why he

killed Holyfield and set up a witness.  If I do nothing, he wins and

MacLeod loses.  Is that what you want?"

"No, it's not what I want, but it's Mac's fight!"

"Not if I get there first.  If MacLeod breaks jail he becomes the fugitive

Cochrane wants him to be.  We're not going to let that happen."

"What's this 'we' stuff, Kimosabe?"  Joe groused.  He shook his head.  "If

MacLeod figures out what you're up to . . ."

"Your job is to keep him from figuring it out," Methos said.

"Oh," Joe said.  "So now I'm **supposed** to interfere, right?"  Their eyes

met.  "Hey," Joe said.  "I'm just trying to keep score here."

Methos stood and pulled his coat on, heading for the door.  "You take care

of MacLeod," he said.  "I'll take care of Cochrane."

MacLeod hadn't been in a French jail since the last time Richie Ryan had

been arrested.

The young immortal had shown up at the barge one chill day several years

ago, unsure of his welcome but obviously in need of help, and Mac had taken

him in, listening skeptically to Richie's summary of events since MacLeod

had sent him away after Richie had taken his first head.  He'd toured a

good portion of the states on his motorcycle, he'd said, wound up in New

Orleans, and ridden down to Rio for Carnival with a girl he'd met.

"Don't tell me this is about another girl,"  Mac had said.  He remembered

his impatience, poorly concealed as he'd interrupted the younger man's

narrative.  With Richie there had always been another girl, another

scrape.  But, no, it had been much more than that this time.

Richie had hopped a freighter in Rio and wound up in a little hotel in

Madrid, where he'd fallen in with a couple of bikers around his own age.

They'd planned to ride together the next day, just going wherever the road

took them, but Richie had awakened from a restless, nightmare-filled sleep,

suddenly aware of another immortal's presence.  It was then he'd discovered

the first body in one of the hotel's public rooms.  Not waiting around for

the police, Richie had headed for Marseilles.  There, a hotel clerk was

murdered just after Richie checked in, and a gas station attendant had been

killed when the young man had stopped to fill up just hours from Paris and

what Richie had hoped would be home and sanctuary.

Mac had recognized the pattern from personal experience, remembering his

own headlong flight with Martin Hyde in pursuit.  Hyde had thought nothing

of slaughtering a handful of mortals as he drove the young Duncan MacLeod

home in search of his teacher, exactly the same way he had relentlessly

driven Richie home to Duncan.

Hyde hadn't found Connor--that, at least, was some comfort--and he hadn't

deigned to take the younger MacLeod seriously at the time.  "I've hunted

and killed worse than you for exercise," he had taunted Duncan.  "I don't

want the cub.  I want the wolf."  As for the mortals he'd killed, they had

been convenient, expendable--like birds, beaten out of the bush for the

entertainment of hunters, nothing more.  He'd framed Richie for murder

simply to flush out MacLeod, knowing the wolf would come to the cub's

protection.

Only this wolf had eventually torn out his own cub's throat, and Richie

Ryan hadn't deserved to die.  And now it was MacLeod's turn to face murder

charges.

Seated on the cell's narrow cot, MacLeod set aside the stainless steel tray

that held the remains of his dinner, looking up as Inspector Lebrun

appeared.  The morning and afternoon had been eaten up in paperwork and a

seemingly endless round of questioning in French and English.  The one

bright spot in the day had come sometime before noon, when a uniformed

officer was allowed to hand him a new shirt and pair of pants, both

supplied by Joe Dawson.  He hadn't been permitted to see or speak with

Dawson, but it was good to at least get out of the clothes that had been

soaked by this morning's rain and then dried uncomfortably on him.  Now,

seated with his forearms resting on his thighs, MacLeod looked up at Lebrun

from behind bars and shrugged, waiting.

"Duncan.  MacLeod."  Inspector Lebrun had a way of making MacLeod's name

sound as if it were two complete sentences, both of them somewhat suspect.

Lebrun shook his head, flipping through pages attached to a clipboard.  "I

have to admit--you do intrigue me.  As far as I have been able to

determine, you are not FBI, CIA, Interpol, MI-5, or part of any of the

world's general alphabet soup of intelligence agencies.  Your name turns up

repeatedly in a stack of unsolved police files, but no one has ever been

able to link you to a crime, however suspicious the circumstances may have

appeared at the time.  Why might that be, do you think?"

Duncan smiled benignly and raised both eyebrows.  "Because I'm innocent?"

he suggested.

"Yes," Lebrun said, "I think you are.  One:  Holyfield was beheaded with a

sword of some type.  Not only do you own a sword, you were carrying it on

your person on the day you were arrested.  Two:  Holyfield is known to have

stalked Claudia Jardine over the last several months and you are a personal

friend of hers.  Three:  Holyfield was killed on the night of the

twenty-third, when you are known to have been in London.  There is even a

witness. Means, motive, and opportunity, all in one neat little package

with your name on it.  A bit **too** neat for my taste.  The question,

then, is obvious:  Who of your acquaintance could want to make it appear

that you are guilty of a murder you did not in fact commit?  Hmm?"

MacLeod said nothing and Lebrun flipped through the pages on his clipboard

until he found what he was looking for.  "Do you recall, by any chance, the

name of one Andrew Donnelly?"  When MacLeod didn't respond, he looked

amused.  "No?  For a man of such obvious intelligence, you surprise me,

Monsieur MacLeod."

He continued.  "In 1994 Andrew Donnelly was found dead.  Like Monsieur

Holyfield, he had been beheaded.  A travel writer named Warren Goddard was

suspect.  He claimed amnesia.  You identified him as a friend of yours and

helped to reunite him with his wife."  Lebrun paused as if waiting for

MacLeod to say something.  When no comment was forthcoming, he continued.

"Goddard was eventually charged in Donnelly's murder and disappeared.  He

is still a fugitive and there is, of course, no statute of limitations on

murder."

"And you think he's framing me," MacLeod concluded.

"I **know** he burned your barge this morning," Lebrun snapped.  "The

American who reported the fire identified Goddard's picture as that of the

man he saw leaving your boat."  The inspector studied his prisoner, shaking

his head at MacLeod's continued silence.  "You amaze me, Monsieur MacLeod.

I hand you the perfect opportunity, and you say nothing.  Perhaps you

**want** to go to prison?"

Goaded, MacLeod rose from the cot and paced restlessly in the confined

space.  "No, of course I don't want to go to jail," he snapped.

"Then help me!  We both know you didn't kill this Holyfield."

"But why would Goddard frame me?"

"Why not?" Lebrun asked.  "Revenge is a powerful motivation.  It was only

after you identified Goddard that we linked him to Donnelly, you know.  Had

he been permitted to remain incognito--whether the amnesia was real or

not--we probably wouldn't have connected him to the murder.  It's obvious

he blames you."

"After four years?" Mac asked.

"Yes, I know," Lebrun said.  "Normally one would expect less time to have

passed--but it may simply have taken him this long to put his plan into

effect.  Or there may have been some triggering event we don't yet know

about.  Regardless, you might be interested in knowing that Goddard

traveled from Calais to England on the twenty-third.  He was caught by

security cameras when he disembarked.  And Monsieur Wheaton, the convenient

witness?  It appears he deposited a large sum several days after

Holyfield's death.  I want to know where it came from."

"Does this mean you're refusing the extradition request?"

Lebrun grinned.  "**I **am doing nothing of the sort.  **I **am merely a

police functionary--much like Blont and Willis themselves.  However, it's

true that they will be going home empty-handed.  In view of everything I

now know, I've reopened the investigation into Donnelly's murder.  That

gives the French a prior claim on your presence, so the British can get in

line.  Not that their case will stand up in court now anyway."  He

chuckled.  "Still, I'll never forget the look on Willis' face when he

relieved you of that toad-sticker of yours.  You'll be getting it back, as

well--Forensics says it wasn't the weapon that killed Holyfield."

Mac's pacing had taken him to the opposite corner of the cell; he turned at

the sound of keys in the lock.  A bit surprised, he watched Lebrun unlock

the cell and then step back, opening the door.

"You're joking."

"Not at all.  Oh, we'd like you to remain in Paris while the investigation

goes forward, and to keep yourself available for questioning, but we really

have no reason to hold you.  Being falsely accused of murder is not a crime

under French law.  Nor is being the victim of arson.  I assume you'll want

to call a friend to pick you up?" he asked.  "And I would appreciate you

apprising me of your whereabouts when you know where you'll be staying.

You can pick up your clothes and sword from the clerk at the property

desk."

It took about half an hour.  He tried his old number for Methos first and

wasn't surprised when a stranger answered.  It had been a year and a half

since he'd last used the number, and Methos had a tendency to change

addresses fairly often.  Dark came early in the winter months, and **Le

Blues Bar** would be open for the supper trade and getting ready for the

night's business.  Still, it wasn't as if he had a whole lot of choice.  He

drummed his fingers on the wall beside the pay phone for another moment and

then punched in the number.  Joe answered on the first ring and walked

through the door of the police station about the same time the properties

clerk handed MacLeod a paper bag containing his clothes and, incongruously,

his katana, sealed in several layers of bubble-wrap plastic and masking

tape.  The Highlander grimaced, stripping off the offending bubble-wrap,

and slipped  the katana back in its place beneath his coat, conscious the

entire time that the properties clerk never took his eyes off of him.

"Let's get out of here," he muttered to Joe, who had the decency to at

least try to conceal his grin.

"Why'd they let you go?" Joe asked.

"Insufficient evidence."

"Not to mention the fact that you didn't do it?"

"Well, yeah," Mac said, climbing into the passenger seat, "there is that.

Where's Methos?"

"At the bar, probably using my computer to trash the Watcher database.  He

is **not** in the best of moods."

"Joe, I need you to tell me if he's going to challenge Cochrane."

"Are you nuts?  If I know the good doctor, he's probably headed in the

opposite direction."

MacLeod reached for Joe's wrist, stopping him in the motion of putting the

keys into the ignition.  He knew Joe was lying to him and he knew why.

"Joe," he said, "Cochrane knows who Methos is."

Between one breath and the next Joe's face underwent a transformation.

"That son of a bitch," he said finally.  "He uses his friends, he uses his

enemies--sort of makes you wonder if he knows which is which, doesn't it?"

Annoyed, he grabbed the car phone and punched one of the preset dialing

buttons.  Mac could hear the muted buzzing of the receiving phone's ringing

in the silence of the car.  "Yeah, Amy, it's Joe--where are you?"

"Outside that abandoned racetrack in Morigny," Amy said, her voice clear

enough that she had to be a safe distance out of Methos' hearing.  "He's

headed inside now."

"We're on our way," Joe growled back.  He slammed the phone onto its cradle

and started the car.

Inside the police station, the properties clerk picked up his telephone and

buzzed through to Inspector Lebrun.  "Do you want him followed, Sir?" he

asked.

"No need," Lebrun answered.  "I know where he's going."

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Tongues of Men and Angels, Chapter 4

by Cameron Dial

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------
    
    The racetrack lay about twenty minutes outside of Paris, south toward
    
    Morigny. In the late 1980s it had been popular for greyhound racing; in the
    
    '90s, it was dirt bikes and motorcycles. By the middle of the decade,
    
    however, the racetrack had faced repeated challenges by the residential
    
    areas encroaching on it, and was eventually squeezed out by zoning
    
    ordinances. In 1996 it had been closed by the owners and put up for sale.
    
    Two years later, the parking lots were still surrounded by chain link
    
    fencing and the "For Sale" signs bore a significant amount of graffiti. It
    
    was after dark when Methos parked his Range Rover on a side street a block
    
    and a half away and walked toward the structure that vaguely reminded him
    
    of Rome's Coliseum. He scaled the fence in the shadow of a billboard-sized
    
    sign proclaiming the name of the company that had won the demolition
    
    contract, landed lightly on the toes of his running shoes, and walked
    
    across the parking lot, absurdly conscious of his white shoes in the dark.
    
    He circled the building in silence, testing each set of its double doors.
    
    The third set of doors opened silently when he tried them. That, he
    
    assumed, meant Cochrane had already arrived. It was all right--one of them
    
    had to get there first, after all.
    
                                     * * * * *
    
    Amy Thomas watched as Adam Pierson let himself into the abandoned building
    
    and ran from behind the hedges, catching the unlocked door before it closed
    
    completely behind him. She counted to twenty, her heart in her mouth, and
    
    then eased the door open slowly, slipping inside, glad Joe's call hadn't
    
    come ten minutes later than it had. As it was, even with the phone set on
    
    "buzz," she had nearly jumped out of her skin when it went off in her coat
    
    pocket.
    
    Pierson had let himself into the building through another door earlier in
    
    the day and carefully scouted out the building, acquainting himself with
    
    its layout. As a result, Amy knew two things: One, Adam Pierson was a very
    
    careful man. Two, there were any number of good hiding places in the
    
    building. She had been forced to duck around corners and below ledges any
    
    number of times in the course of trailing Pierson through the deserted
    
    building, and wasn't at all sure she wasn't being played with--a thought
    
    that annoyed her more than a little. She finally told herself to get over
    
    it and concentrated on her job. Having done so, she was reasonably sure she
    
    could guess where he was headed now.
    
    Inside, six gradually sloping tunnels led down to the basement level, which
    
    she knew had once served as dog kennels, and today held the closed
    
    administrative offices, half a dozen large rest rooms and several
    
    concession stands, all arranged around the building's outer circumference.
    
    The floor was littered with debris everywhere, though there were waist-high
    
    metal garbage cans standing about. Broken and missing ceiling tiles
    
    overhead exposed the I-beam lattice-work of the ceiling. Dozens of
    
    electrical cables dangled from the ceiling as well, attesting to the
    
    building's long disuse. Above the basement level, where she assumed Pierson
    
    was headed, sloping switch back walkways and escalators led upstairs to the
    
    lower level spectators' stands and the open-air racetrack; another, higher
    
    deck of stands rose above the lower level seats, providing an excellent
    
    view of the track. On the ground level, hip-high walls and guardrails
    
    separated the various seating sections, providing light and air for the
    
    building's lower levels--the effect was very like being in the underbelly
    
    of any major sporting arena, half indoors and half out.
    
    Richie Ryan had died here, Amy remembered. She'd studied his closed, short
    
    chronicle in the Watchers' archives mostly because Pierson had occasionally
    
    come in contact with the young immortal, but also because she knew Joe had
    
    been fond of the young man. From the chronicle it appeared that Ryan and
    
    Pierson hadn't been close friends--rather, they were like two planets
    
    circling the same sun, drawn together because of their association with
    
    MacLeod. It was an association that had gotten Ryan killed. And on the
    
    heels of that thought, she couldn't help wondering if the usually cautious
    
    Adam Pierson was letting himself be drawn too deeply into one of MacLeod's
    
    morasses. Pierson could very easily have lost his head that morning because
    
    of MacLeod, and on holy ground, no less. Amy shook her head, remembering
    
    the earthquake, and wondered what would have happened if Pierson had lost
    
    his head instead of suffering a killing stab wound at Cochrane's hands.
    
    Paris, reduced to another Pompeii?
    
    There--she spotted Pierson again and stopped still, hugging the wall's
    
    shadows behind one of the garbage cans three-quarters way down the ramp. He
    
    might very well know she was his Watcher, but that was no reason to get
    
    sloppy. She settled down on the floor, determined to wait him out,
    
    concentrating on being small.
    
                                     * * * * *
    
    Methos slowed slightly at the soft sound behind him, but didn't stop. It
    
    had sounded like the abrasive whisper of cloth on concrete and, since he
    
    hadn't sensed the presence of another immortal anywhere yet, that most
    
    likely meant Amy was along for the light show and most likely in for a bit
    
    of a surprise. *There goes my cover, *he thought. Not that he could blame
    
    her--positively identifying him as Methos would be a definite career maker
    
    for a young Watcher. Well, it had been an interesting three or four years
    
    and at the moment he couldn't afford to worry about it. Tahiti was nice
    
    this time of year. Hell, Tahiti was nice any time of year. Still, it was a
    
    nuisance to have to start one's life over again, and there were--things--he
    
    would miss about being "Adam Pierson," among them Joe Dawson and Duncan
    
    MacLeod. Coming to the foot of the ramp, he stopped, surveying the large
    
    room and remembering the last time he'd been here.
    
    Richie Ryan had died very near the foot of the escalator, right over there.
    
    Methos remembered the moment over a year and a half ago now when he had
    
    realized, too late, what MacLeod had done. In his mind he could still see
    
    Richie's severed head rolling loose on the filthy floor, rocking unevenly
    
    like a fumbled football. Thankfully, the quickening normally stanched the
    
    blood flow as it cauterized the veins and arteries, so there had been
    
    little blood. Joe Dawson had stared in horror at the boy's headless body
    
    and then, in disbelief, at MacLeod, still gripping the katana. In that
    
    moment Methos had gently put out his foot and stopped the head's obscene
    
    rolling, not wanting Joe to remember it that way. *So young*, he remembered
    
    thinking. *So very young.* Now, he couldn't be sure if he'd been thinking
    
    of Richie, or Joe, or even Duncan at the time.
    
    "Please," MacLeod had whispered. His voice had been hoarse as he held the
    
    katana out to Methos, begging for death.
    
    And Methos had turned his back on the man who was the best friend he'd ever
    
    had. "Absolutely not," he'd said.
    
    What MacLeod had not understood, he feared now, was that his refusal hadn't
    
    been intended as a punishment. Having killed his student, MacLeod had
    
    instantly turned to Methos and submitted himself for judgment. Methos
    
    *knew* Duncan had a tendency to bow to authority--it was part of that
    
    damned clan mentality he carried around with him and it was only natural
    
    that he accept Methos as an authority figure. How could he not when Methos
    
    was the oldest living immortal? Unfortunately, MacLeod insisted on seeing
    
    him as all knowing, despite everything Methos had done to dissuade him of
    
    it. That was the root of the problem--that and the fact that MacLeod had a
    
    tendency to listen at the wrong time, or at least to interpret whatever
    
    Methos was trying to tell him in ways the old man had never intended.
    
    In the year, year and a half they'd been apart, MacLeod had convinced
    
    himself that Methos' refusal to act was an act in itself. When Methos had
    
    refused to take MacLeod's head the Highlander had seen it as the same
    
    sentence he himself had imposed on Warren Cochrane years ago: life with the
    
    full knowledge of what he had done, the memory present in every cell of his
    
    body forever, never to be forgotten, never to be forgiven.
    
    It was like the time Stephen Keane had come hunting MacLeod some years ago.
    
    Amanda had feared the Highlander's guilt over the past would get him killed
    
    and when Mac hadn't listened to her, she'd come beating down Methos' door
    
    in the middle of the night, insisting he talk to the Scot. *Try forgiving
    
    yourself for once*, he'd counseled MacLeod. He'd known it wouldn't work, of
    
    course, and wound up shooting MacLeod in the back and taking on Keane
    
    himself. He'd had the man on his knees and was winding up for the killing
    
    stroke when MacLeod had stormed up, highly indignant.
    
    "You do, and I'm next!" he'd shouted at Methos. He'd meant it, too--he'd
    
    have taken Methos' head on the spot, killing a friend to save an enemy he
    
    himself planned to kill, all out of some convoluted logic marked *honor* in
    
    that thick skull of his. Oh, he'd have regretted it later--MacLeod never
    
    did think much beyond the moment when he'd worked himself into a
    
    passion--but by then Methos would have been dead and MacLeod would have had
    
    *that* guilt to carry around as well.
    
    And now? Methos stopped at the bottom of the ramp, just beginning to feel
    
    the ring of presence that signaled another immortal was near by, like the
    
    vibration of a train that wasn't actually present, but that could be felt
    
    through the rails. He had a few seconds, probably, before the other became
    
    aware he was there. Time enough for self-flagellation, anyway.
    
    If Mac had refused to kill Cochrane because he couldn't bear to end a
    
    friend's life, he could have forgiven himself now. If he had stayed his
    
    hand out of respect for two hundred years of shared experiences, it would
    
    have been understandable, even acceptable. But he had refused out of
    
    self-righteousness, that stubborn, holier-than-thou sense of justice he was
    
    no doubt choking on at the moment. Mary MacLeod had seen to it that a young
    
    Duncan MacLeod knew his bible, and she would have had the words ready to
    
    flay him with: *Judge not that ye be not judged, For with what judgment ye
    
    judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be
    
    measured to you again.* And it was his fault, Methos thought, because he
    
    should have seen it coming. He should have realized that MacLeod would
    
    equate his own actions with Cochrane's and be unable to forgive himself.
    
    More, he should have seen MacLeod's need for punishment and his inability
    
    to restore balance to his world without it.
    
    One thing about MacLeod--he was big on self-sacrifice but he'd never really
    
    understood repentance. He'd had more than a few doubts about Methos when
    
    Cassandra had revealed the truth of his past with the Horsemen, but in the
    
    years since then they'd reached an understanding of sorts and a level of
    
    trust. And it was true--the Highlander was wont to set himself up as judge
    
    and jury in the face of perceived wrongdoing or injustice, but another
    
    tenant of Christian scripture was *Judge ye with a righteous judgment* -- a
    
    fact that modern practitioners seemed all too likely to forget. (And after
    
    5,000 years, Methos' definition of the word "modern" was a bit more
    
    flexible than most.) He tended to take the long view of most things, and
    
    Duncan MacLeod was the single best chance he had seen for the Game to come
    
    to a supportable conclusion--and he wasn't about to let the Scot throw it
    
    all away because he had a guilty conscience over the likes of Warren
    
    Cochrane.
    
    Footsteps echoing down the opposite corridor drew Methos' attention; the
    
    ever-increasing sense of another immortal's presence riveted it. "So,
    
    MacLeod," he heard Cochrane's voice drawl from the opposite tunnel. "You
    
    got my invitation."
    
    "Sorry," Methos responded. "MacLeod couldn't make it. Something about a
    
    murder warrant? You really should think these things through better,
    
    Cochrane."
    
    That brought Cochrane to the bottom of the tunnel more rapidly than he'd
    
    planned, his leisurely, self-assured stroll turning into an angry jog. He
    
    stood in the arched tunnel opening, sword in hand, his mouth a murderous
    
    line. "Methos," he breathed. He laughed then, cocking his head to one side.
    
    "That is what he called you, isn't it? Methos, oldest of the old?" He
    
    grinned. "Funny--I always thought a legend would be more imposing, somehow.
    
    More... I don't know. Heroic?"
    
    "What?" Methos asked, his tone all innocent curiosity as he drew his own
    
    sword. "Like Bonnie Prince Charlie?"
    
    Swinging his rapier from side to side in challenge, Cochrane faltered
    
    visibly. "You know nothing of that," he said, taking a step forward.
    
    "I was *there*, Cochrane," Methos said. "I was with MacLeod the day he
    
    found you, after you killed your student."
    
    Cochrane froze, and Methos raised one eyebrow, a smile just touching his
    
    mouth.. "You do remember your student, don't you?" he asked, watching
    
    Cochrane's face redden. "Young man named Andrew Donnelly?"
    
    "That's none of your business!" Cochrane shouted. His right hand worked on
    
    the hilt of his sword, gripping and re-gripping the handle.
    
    Methos cocked his head half to one side. "You're absolutely right," he
    
    agreed, and had the pleasure of seeing Cochrane open his mouth and then
    
    close it, licking his lips in uncertainty. "You know," Methos continued,
    
    shrugging out of his coat and tossing it against the wall, "I really don't
    
    give a damn that you killed your student. At most it's an unfortunate
    
    coincidence at the moment. On the other hand, I tend to take it personally
    
    when people come after my friends, and whatever else MacLeod may be, he
    
    *is* my friend. You set him up as a murderer, Cochrane. You didn't do a
    
    very good *job* of it, but you killed Collier to set the trap. You used
    
    him, and you used MacLeod. You'd happily see him go to prison, wouldn't
    
    you? A man who gave you your life--"
    
    "Gave me my life?" Cochrane sneered. "Duncan MacLeod damned me to hell--"
    
    "Oh, please," Methos said wearily. "You made your own hell. Duncan MacLeod
    
    gave you your *life*, whatever his reasons, and we both know how you repaid
    
    him. Your reasons don't interest me. On the other hand," he admitted, "I am
    
    just a *bit* pissed that you attacked me on holy ground this morning. I may
    
    not always play by the rules, but that's one I've never broken. Let's just
    
    get this over with, shall we?" he asked. He bowed mockingly, his face
    
    showing nothing when Cochrane took the bait and stepped into the center of
    
    the room as if stepping on stage, completely ignoring the proximity of any
    
    avenue of escape. It was, of course, exactly what Methos wanted, and he
    
    slammed into Cochrane, making the deserted building ring with the sound of
    
    steel on steel.
    
                                     * * * * *
    
    Lebrun's head came up at the sound of metal clashing against metal as he
    
    stood quietly in the shadows of the upper tier of bleachers. He'd picked
    
    the spot because it afforded an excellent view of the racetrack and most of
    
    the tunnels leading to the deserted lower levels; now, he didn't know why
    
    he had assumed MacLeod would conduct his business out in the open--perhaps
    
    because MacLeod himself seemed such an honorable person. Policeman's
    
    instincts or not, it now appeared the action was below, either on the
    
    ground level on in the basement level below. Swearing beneath his breath,
    
    Lebrun cursed the impulse that had caused him to leave his sergeant seated
    
    comfortably in the car parked outside the back gate. They'd used
    
    long-handled bolt cutters to cut through the padlock that had secured the
    
    gate, and Lebrun had wanted the exit guarded, but at the moment he
    
    regretted the choice.
    
    As he took the cement steps two and three at a time now, the sound of steel
    
    on steel echoed up through the racetrack's empty corridors, raising the
    
    short hairs on the back of his neck, and he wished fervently for back up.
    
    Back up for what, exactly, he wasn't sure, he admitted, pulling out his
    
    service revolver--he had been truthful with the Highlander when he'd said
    
    he didn't believe MacLeod had murdered Holyfield, but *someone* had, and at
    
    the moment he couldn't help remembering that MacLeod--and possibly some of
    
    his friends--carried *big* swords. Every instinct Lebrun had told him he'd
    
    find the murderer here, at the racetrack, tonight. The two racing flags
    
    scratched into the wall of MacLeod's barge were as clear an invitation as
    
    one ever got in police work, and as he rounded the corner into the first of
    
    the switch back tunnels leading to the floor below Lebrun was positive of
    
    it.
    
                                     * * * * *
    
    In a heartbeat Pierson had launched a hard, driving attack, straight into
    
    Cochrane, right hand over left on the handle of the heavy Ivanhoe
    
    blade--strike, parry, strike, parry and strike again, each blow forcing the
    
    other man back, and Amy was on her feet, dizzy with what she'd heard.
    
    *Methos? Could Adam Pierson actually be Methos?* As she watched, not caring
    
    now if they saw her or not, Cochrane gave ground unwillingly, his lighter
    
    sword held in the classic position, left elbow bent, hand resting in the
    
    small of his back as he wielded the rapier right-handed. Most likely he had
    
    expected a few moments to learn his opponent's strengths and weaknesses in
    
    the Game, Amy thought, but Methos' attack allowed for none of that.
    
    Sweet mother of God, if Adam Pierson really were Methos, what would he do
    
    to protect the secret? *What wouldn't he do?* It had caused enough of a
    
    stir when the Watchers had figured out that Adam Pierson was an
    
    immortal--Adam Pierson, a researcher no-one thought would hurt a fly. Most
    
    of her superiors had concluded that Pierson had died, figured out he was
    
    immortal, and decided the Watchers made the perfect hiding place. She'd
    
    even heard jokes made at his expense; heard him called names like Walter
    
    Mitty and Casper Milquetoast. If the Watchers learned he was actually
    
    Methos . . . did the words wolf in sheep's clothing mean anything to
    
    anyone? He'd be walking around with a bull's eye painted on his forehead,
    
    and the immortals wouldn't be the only ones after him. * Adam Pierson?*
    
    Just wait 'til she got her hands on Joe.
    
                                     * * * * *
    
    Having seen Cochrane in action just that morning, Methos had no need to
    
    learn his opponent's fighting style; in fact, it was rather
    
    predictable--not that that was a *bad* thing, of course, at least not from
    
    his point of view.
    
    For a full minute there was no sound except the ringing of their blades
    
    clashing one against the other and, loud in their ears, the sound of their
    
    own harsh breathing, pushed out past clenched teeth. Then, a pause, each
    
    poised, blades extended, holding one another at bay while Cochrane skipped
    
    back a few steps, using the time to steer clear of a pile of construction
    
    debris left on the floor. As he ducked beneath a dangling cable set
    
    swinging by Cochrane's retreat, Methos caught sight of Amy in the tunnel
    
    he'd come through, and for a moment laughter bubbled up in his throat.
    
    "You're good," Cochrane gasped out.
    
    "I've had lots of time to practice," Methos remarked. What the hell, he
    
    thought. Amy had obviously heard Cochrane call him by name, so there was
    
    little sense in denying it now. *Life goes on. For some of us.* He lunged
    
    abruptly, switching in midstep from the thrust Cochrane read in his body
    
    language to a backhanded swipe delivered as he spun, catching Cochrane just
    
    under the ribs as the younger immortal twisted to get away.
    
    Cochrane grimaced, left arm snaking instinctively around his ribs for
    
    comfort, fingers finding and testing the wound, sword momentarily lowered.
    
    Methos never hesitated. He leapt forward, grasped Cochrane's sword arm and
    
    twisted, throwing the man abruptly into the debris pile he'd just taken
    
    care to clear. Cochrane rolled noisily through the trash, wincing at the
    
    pain in his side, and came up with a trickle of blood at the right corner
    
    of his mouth where he'd bitten his own lip.
    
    "Bastard," Cochrane muttered. He shook his head to clear it, touching his
    
    free hand momentarily to the blood at his mouth. "I killed you once today
    
    already," he pointed out. In other circumstances it might have been
    
    shouted; at the moment he was conserving breath. "I wouldn't mind it, you
    
    know," he gasped out. "Taking the head of the oldest Immortal would be
    
    quite a coup, don't you think? Just think of the power. Just think of
    
    MacLeod's face."
    
    "Trying to talk me to death, Cochrane?" Methos asked. He moved a bit
    
    restlessly, recognizing Cochrane's stalling tactics for what they were,
    
    knowing it was just the sort of trick he himself might use against an
    
    opponent. Sure enough, at that moment Cochrane dipped a hand beneath his
    
    coat not to nurse the wound at his ribs, but to emerge with a second,
    
    shorter blade as he got to his feet.
    
    "Oh, come on, Cochrane," Methos jeered. "I practically *invented* that
    
    one."
    
    Instead of stepping back as the other man obviously anticipated, he
    
    charged, engaging the rapier while keeping an eye on the equally deadly
    
    short sword, again driving the younger man back, ignoring the growing ache
    
    in shoulders and forearms that--truly--were not accustomed to the exertion.
    
    He shifted for the time being to a single handed grip, swinging the blade
    
    back and forth in swooshing, scythe-like strokes intended to buy him both
    
    elbow room and breathing space, refusing to be brought in close enough to
    
    allow Cochrane to use the short sword.
    
    It was then that Cochrane glimpsed the dead escalator out of the corner of
    
    one eye and bolted for it, taking the steps two and three at a time.
    
    At the same moment, Lebrun ran down the switch back tunnel all the noise
    
    was coming from, gun drawn. The clanging stopped momentarily, and he saw
    
    two men dodge past the tunnel opening, running for the escalator. *No, no,
    
    no, no*, Lebrun thought--he did not want to have to chase two armed men up
    
    an escalator when he'd just run *down* bleacher steps and two tunnels,
    
    especially not two men armed with swords.
    
    "Police!" he shouted, running headlong down the tunnel. And then, with
    
    considerable pain, Lebrun's world went black.
    
                                     * * * * *
    
    Joe Dawson shook his head. The kind of people he routinely hung out with
    
    sometimes amazed him. MacLeod had efficiently knocked Lebrun's sergeant out
    
    while the man was answering Mother Nature's call behind a bush and then
    
    slipped the lock on one of the building's doors to let them in. *Let's
    
    see,* Joe thought. *That's assault on a police officer and breaking and
    
    entering.* Moments later the unmistakable clash of swords brought them to
    
    the right tunnel only seconds after Lebrun charged through, gun drawn,
    
    intent obvious. MacLeod tried to thrust Joe back, out of the way of
    
    possible harm. It might have worked, too, if Joe hadn't recognized Amy's
    
    silhouette at the mouth of the tunnel.
    
    At that point, Joe threw his cane down the tunnel. The walking stick
    
    bounced, clipped the police inspector across the back of the ankles, and
    
    tangled with his feet and legs as he tried to avoid it. He went down for
    
    the count, sliding to an unconscious stop at Amy's feet as she turned
    
    around, the revolver skittering away across the concrete.
    
    *Make that two counts of assault on a police officer*, Joe thought.
    
                                     * * * * *
    
    Cochrane took the escalator steps three at a time as Lebrun went down.
    
    Methos was right behind him, giving him no time to turn or use the angle
    
    against him. At the top of the escalator Cochrane had his back to him for
    
    one instant as Methos closed the gap between them, short sword exposed and
    
    vulnerable. Methos brought his heavier blade down brutally, knocking the
    
    blade from Cochrane's hand. The short sword flew over the guardrail and
    
    clattered noisly to the floor below. In the same breath they were facing
    
    each other again, Cochrane flexing his empty hand repeatedly, working out
    
    the sting of impact, the rapier extended over his head, forcing Methos to
    
    stay back again when he would rather have charged. They were close enough
    
    now to see each other's chest heaving, and to see the tremble of exertion
    
    in forearms and shoulders.
    
    *Well*, Methos thought, *if he insists on playing coy--*
    
    He swung, his sword biting the air, forcing Cochrane to jump back, sucking
    
    in his stomach to avoid steel. Again and again he advanced, Cochrane
    
    retreating as far as he could, the backs of his legs abruptly encountering
    
    the low wall and guardrail separating the upper floor from the basement
    
    level. Gravity took over and Cochrane hit the concrete floor painfully as
    
    Methos leaped from the balcony, knees bent to absorb the shock, free hand
    
    out to steady himself. Two steps put him directly behind Cochrane, who was
    
    struggling to rise. His next step brought his right foot down firmly on top
    
    of Cochrane's remaining blade, pinning it to the floor as Cochrane
    
    struggled to his knees.
    
    "Methos!"
    
    MacLeod's voice was unmistakable. Raised above Methos' right shoulder in an
    
    unmistakable death stroke, the Ivanhoe never wavered. Joe put an arm around
    
    Amy's shoulders, but she barely spared him a glance--she read the movement
    
    in Methos' face, and knew that MacLeod had, too. It looked effortless, the
    
    rise *en pointe* that made her suddenly aware of the wiry man before her as
    
    both athletic and graceful. Methos had stretched himself ever so slightly
    
    on his toes, his upraised arms stretched simultaneously outward and up. The
    
    downstroke was abrupt by comparison, the sword cutting audibly through the
    
    air before it connected with flesh and bone. There was a sick, dull thud
    
    that Amy wasn't sure she heard as much as imagined, and Cochrane's body
    
    toppled forward seemingly in slow motion, the force of the blow sending the
    
    head rolling. God help her, the only thing she could think of was a bowling
    
    ball rolling among the debris that littered the floor near the escalator.
    
    And as the energy of the quickening began to gather about them she was
    
    aware of Duncan MacLeod, who turned and strode up the ramp, disappearing
    
    without so much as a glance back at any of them.
    
                      ****************************************
    
                       *************************************
    
    "I'm going to be sick."
    
    Trembling slightly, Amy pushed herself away from the shelter of Joe's arms
    
    and sank to her knees on the floor. With Joe's hand pressing her shoulder
    
    just enough to let her know he was there, she vomited against the dirty,
    
    whitewashed bricks of the wall until there was nothing left in her stomach
    
    to come up.
    
    *Oh, God, what an amateur*, she thought. *My first real Quickening and I
    
    lose my lunch.* Slowly, not wanting to trigger another wave of nausea, she
    
    lifted her head to look around again, nodding in thanks as Joe handed her a
    
    handkerchief to blot the vomit from her mouth and then bent to retrieve his
    
    cane.
    
    The energy of the Quickening had picked up the loose trash from the floor
    
    and thrown it swirling into the air, kicking up enough dust to make her
    
    eyes sting, but she could still see Cochrane's severed head, rocking gently
    
    where it lay after Methos had beheaded the other immortal. Somehow she'd
    
    just never... quite ... imagined what a fight must be like between two
    
    people with swords who fully intended to kill each other. As Joe helped her
    
    to her feet she realized that Methos was still standing, though she
    
    couldn't imagine how. Only a moment ago she'd seen Cochrane's Quickening
    
    hit him in force, seen him throw his head back, arms rigid and extended in
    
    agony as he braced himself, knees locked, using his sword to
    
    channel--disperse?--the energy that lanced and crackled through him like a
    
    miniature storm that seemed to go on and on. In the academy, she and some
    
    of her fellow students had joked that the Quickening carried a sexual
    
    charge and that was what made it so sought after by the Immortals. They'd
    
    actually thought it was *funny*.
    
    Embarrassed, she remembered being furious with Joe for dragging her away
    
    from the scene when Pierson had fought Morgan Walker. She'd whirled on Joe
    
    like a spoiled child, angry and self-righteous at having missed the
    
    Quickening, as if being denied a special treat. "I'm a Watcher!" she'd
    
    snapped at him. "I watch--that's what I do! It's what you're supposed to
    
    do!" She'd snatched her hand away from him and stomped off to file her
    
    report--the report that led, in very short order, to Adam Pierson being
    
    added to the Watchers' official list of Immortals and Amy being assigned as
    
    his watcher. Now, remembering the man before her crucified on strike after
    
    strike of lightning, remembering the unwavering death stroke she'd watched
    
    him deliver as if in slow motion... she doubted it was possible for mortals
    
    to understand anything about the Immortals or their Game.
    
    It was then that Inspector LeBrun moaned softly and shifted slightly at her
    
    feet. Amy took a careful step back, watching the semi-conscious police
    
    detective curl slowly into a fetal position on the filthy floor. "Uh,
    
    guys?" she said uncertainly. "Help?"
    
    Methos glanced up from retrieving his coat and walked toward her, shifting
    
    his and Cochrane's swords from hand to hand as he slipped the coat back on.
    
    Aware of Amy's eyes on him, he stepped over Cochrane's body and made the
    
    swords disappear inside the familiar beige trench, rolling his shoulders
    
    and shrugging to settle the fabric and its newly concealed weight.
    
    Intrigued despite her growing concern, Amy stared openly at Methos'
    
    automatic adjustments of posture and stride. She *knew* he had two swords
    
    tucked inside that coat, but you'd never have known from looking at him.
    
    "Can I borrow this, Joe?" Methos asked. He took Joe's cane out of his hand,
    
    hefted it as if testing its weight, and then cracked LeBrun over the head
    
    with it.
    
    Joe had to laugh--it was such a bizarre little tableau there seemed no
    
    other possible response, though he regretted it immediately with one man
    
    dead and another lying unconscious almost at his feet. Of course, he had a
    
    tendency to do things around Methos that he didn't do around anyone else,
    
    and the fact that the old man was practically glowing with mischief didn't
    
    help. *I'm easily amused*, Methos had said to him not too long ago, and he
    
    felt a smile tugging at his lips until he glanced at Amy, every line of her
    
    posture outraged, her mouth open just a little as she looked in disbelief
    
    from Methos to the unconscious LeBrun and back to Methos again.
    
    "What?" Methos asked innocently. "You asked for help."
    
    "Not *that* kind of help!" Amy sputtered.
    
    "You *asked* for help," Methos repeated. His tone suggested he was simply
    
    an offended academician, snagged between classes by a particularly dense
    
    student who hadn't done her homework. On the other hand, his normally
    
    green-gold eyes had gone quite dark in the partial shadows of the building
    
    with . . . what? For the life of him, Joe wasn't sure. "Look, Miss... *Not
    
    Dawson*," Methos said, ignoring Joe's involuntary wince.
    
    "Thomas," Amy snapped. "My name is Amy Thomas and you know it!"
    
    "Well, if you're going to be a Watcher you're going to have to get used to
    
    a thing or two--"
    
    "Like murder?" Amy asked. "And assault on a police officer?"
    
    "And the occasional Quickening," Methos said smoothly.
    
    Amy's face went red, her neck and face blazing. Leave it to Adam Pierson to
    
    be aware that she had to go and throw up in the middle of a Quickening.
    
    *Weren't Immortals supposed to be beyond noticing things like that, caught
    
    up in the other guy's memories and things?* She squeezed her hands into
    
    fists and put her chin up defiantly, belatedly realizing she was mangling
    
    Joe's handkerchief. "Oh, I see," she said sarcastically. "It's all part of
    
    a day's work for you, isn't it? A little breaking and entering, a
    
    decapitation or two--"
    
    "One lousy little decapitation--"
    
    "That's enough!"
    
    Half pleading, half commanding, Joe pinned them both with a withering look,
    
    and for almost half a minute there was silence.
    
    "Right. I'm outta here," Amy announced abruptly.
    
    "Write when you get work," Methos called after her, and again there was
    
    silence.
    
    Joe sighed. "Have you *ever* let anyone else have the last word?" he asked
    
    tiredly.
    
    "Not that I recall," Methos muttered.
    
                                     * * * * *
    
    There were close to two dozen bridges that crossed the Seine, and it was
    
    almost sundown of the next day before Methos found MacLeod, seated at the
    
    foot of one of them, calmly looking out at the water. Mac had to have felt
    
    him coming, of course, but he didn't turn around or give any indication
    
    that he knew another Immortal was there. Frowning as he came down the
    
    broad, shallow steps, Methos wasn't sure whether to regard the lack of
    
    reaction as a sign of trust or an indication that Mac simply didn't give a
    
    damn. Settling onto the steps next to the Scot, he decided it was the
    
    latter.
    
    Undeterred, Methos put the white plastic shopping bag he carried on the
    
    step below him and began rummaging around inside it until he was sure he
    
    had MacLeod's attention. "These are mine," he said, taking out two bottles
    
    of beer and setting them down between his feet, "and *this* is yours. A
    
    fifth of the good stuff, with Joe's compliments." He extended the bottle to
    
    MacLeod, holding it by the neck, and was pleased when the Scot reached for
    
    it after just a moment.
    
    "It's been opened," Mac said.
    
    "Well, yeah," Methos said reasonably. "We had to be sure it was the good
    
    stuff."
    
    "Ah."
    
    They sat together without speaking for a several minutes while the
    
    after-work foot traffic along the bridge thinned out and finally stopped
    
    all together, the shadows gradually growing longer behind them. Finally,
    
    MacLeod gestured toward the water with his bottle and commented, "Richie
    
    and I used to come here occasionally. We finished off a bottle of really
    
    good cognac here, right after he'd come back to Paris, with Martin Hyde
    
    driving him all the way to get to me."
    
    "Yeah? What was that--two years ago?"
    
    "Three."
    
    "Hmm."
    
    There was another, lengthier silence this time.
    
    "I've been thinking about your friend Ingrid," Methos said finally.
    
    "Ingrid?" Mac turned questioning eyes on him.
    
    "Yeah. Tall, dark hair, German accent--"
    
    "I know who you mean."
    
         They confronted each other outside the hall where Wilkinson's New
    
         Freedom Party was holding its latest rally, MacLeod and Ingrid,
    
         each standing their ground, an insurmountable distance between
    
         them at last as she held the detonator's remote control in her
    
         hand, ready to trigger the bomb inside the hall.
    
         "Ingrid, don't do this," he pleaded. "Dozens of innocent people
    
         are going to die."
    
         "Innocence is relative," she said calmly. "You've lived long
    
         enough to know that." Despite the harshness of her words, her
    
         accent danced deliciously among them, teasing him with old
    
         memories.
    
         "What about the cop you killed?" he asked. "What was his crime?
    
         He was just doing his job. He didn't care about Wilkinson. He
    
         didn't care about politics."
    
         "Just like those German officers we killed with that bomb?" she
    
         responded. "They were just soldiers. Ah, yes, but that was the
    
         price of killing Hitler. Except that we didn't."
    
         "That was war," he insisted, meaning, "That was different."
    
         Slowly, she raised her right hand, ready to trigger the bomb, and
    
         he'd tensed. "Put it down," he ordered.
    
         She looked so sad--sad, and gentle, and almost childlike somehow.
    
         "I can't, Duncan."
    
         "I don't want to do this," he said, and the street lamp's rays
    
         glinted off the katana's blade, the steel whispering against its
    
         sling as he pulled it from his coat.
    
         She grew still for a moment, disappointment crossing her face.
    
         "We're old friends," she reminded him.
    
         Near tears, his throat tight, he'd responded: "This goes beyond
    
         friendship."
    
         "You'll never be able to do it," she said. "I know you--you're
    
         better than I am."
    
         "Please--"
    
         "Imagine a world without tyrants, without dictators," she'd
    
         whispered, the light of it touching her beautiful face.
    
         He shook his head. "I can't let you kill everybody in that room."
    
         "You're prepared to sacrifice our friendship?" she asked. "For
    
         what? For a group of racist, arrogant bastards who are no better
    
         than Wilkinson is?"
    
         "It doesn't matter what they are," he insisted, something in him
    
         still hoping to be able to make her see reason. At the same time
    
         she raised the remote control--a small black box, no larger than
    
         the palm of her hand, with a whip antenna extending from it and a
    
         single, round button in its center--so small, so harmless
    
         looking. He lifted the katana, knowing it was past reason now.
    
         "Put it down, damn you!" he grated. "You have no right to do
    
         this!"
    
         "But you have the right to stop me?" she demanded. "How is that
    
         different from my killing them?" There was no answer to that, she
    
         knew, and she raised the remote control. "It's now or never,
    
         Duncan," she told him.
    
         "No!" he shouted, stepping forward to stop her. The swipe of the
    
         blade was almost instinctive, the Quickening taking him even as
    
         the remote control fell to the sidewalk beside Ingrid's crumpled
    
         body.
    
    "And?"
    
    "And what?"
    
    "What about Ingrid?"
    
    "Oh--well, it was something you said at the time, actually something you
    
    asked me at the time."
    
         The rally was over, and Wilkinson's supporters were departing in
    
         a celebratory mood, shouting encouragement to each other along
    
         with their good byes, honking their horns good naturedly as they
    
         drove off.
    
         "You okay?" Methos asked him, coming to sit next to him on the
    
         hood of the hall's commercial air conditioning unit, just outside
    
         the back door.
    
         Not quite trusting his voice, Mac nodded, knowing he wasn't
    
         fooling either of them. After a moment he said simply, "Ingrid
    
         asked me something before she died."
    
         "They usually do," Methos said. His voice was almost sing-song, a
    
         tiny smile lighting on his lips.
    
         Mac blinked and the smile was gone as quickly as it had come.
    
         "She said, what was the difference between her killing them and
    
         me killing her?"
    
         "Good question," Methos said. "Right up there with the chicken
    
         and the egg."
    
         It was just like the old man to make light of the whole thing, as
    
         if killing a friend was something that happened every day, and
    
         MacLeod felt himself growing irritated. "So, what are you
    
         saying?" he demanded. "That there is no answer?"
    
         "No," Methos said. "There's an answer." There was a different
    
         note in his voice, something both concerned and serious as Mac
    
         met his eyes. "The real question is whether you're ready for it."
    
         After a second, MacLeod nodded.
    
         "Right." Methos pursed his lips together and took a breath.
    
         "Stephanovitch killed and Ingrid judged him. Wilkinson killed and
    
         Ingrid judged him. Ingrid killed and you judged her."
    
         "And who judges me?" MacLeod asked.*
    
    "I killed Richie," MacLeod said quietly.
    
    "And having killed your student, you turned to me for judgment," Methos
    
    said.
    
         "Please," MacLeod had whispered. His voice had been hoarse as he
    
         held the katana out to Methos, begging for death.
    
         And Methos had turned his back on the man who was the best friend
    
         he'd ever had. "Absolutely not," he'd said.
    
    After a moment, Mac nodded.
    
    "And when I refused to judge you," Methos said, "you judged yourself."
    
    MacLeod opened his mouth to protest. "You said--"
    
    "I said that I wouldn't judge you, and I didn't."
    
    "But I killed him," Mac said. "I killed my own student."
    
    "And you found yourself guilty of the crime and gave yourself the same
    
    sentence you'd imposed on Warren Cochrane--life with the knowledge of what
    
    you'd done, never to be forgotten or forgiven."
    
    Mac stood and turned his back on Methos. The street lamps had come on,
    
    their reflections rippling with the water when he turned back, swimming,
    
    too, in the tears that stood in his eyes. Methos had risen, too, and was
    
    standing with his hands shoved casually in his jeans pockets, elbows
    
    pushing his coat back in a familiar posture. Mac swallowed, finally asking
    
    in a strained voice, "Was I wrong?"
    
    "Richie's death was an accident, Mac. At some level you have to know that."
    
    "So, what? You want me to plead temporary insanity? You think I should find
    
    myself not guilty by reason of mental defect? He isn't any less dead
    
    because I didn't mean to do it. I *killed* him, Methos!"
    
    "Yes, you did. Just like Warren Cochrane killed his student."
    
    "So add that to my crimes! You said it yourself: I set myself up as judge
    
    and jury. I *wanted* Cochrane to suffer lifelong for what he'd done--well,
    
    he did that, didn't he? He lost his home, his friends, the woman he loved,
    
    possibly even his mind. He became a fugitive wanted for murder. He *became*
    
    a murderer, Methos--in the end he was nothing like the man I'd known or the
    
    friend I'd loved. And it might all have been avoided if I'd tried to
    
    understand--"
    
    He knew. Looking at him, watching Methos just stand there, so still in that
    
    maddening way he had, Mac knew that Methos understood the helplessness, the
    
    frustration, the fury. He understood the need to cry to heaven, even when
    
    heaven held no answer. Somehow, knowing that helped, at least a little.
    
    *I'm just a guy, Joe, *he'd said a dozen times. *Yeah, right. A guy who was
    
    5,000 years old.* "Been there, done that" took on a whole different meaning
    
    around Methos.
    
    Mac took a step forward. "Why'd you kill Cochrane?" he asked.
    
    *Because I wasn't sure you could bear the consequences of having to do it
    
    yourself*, Methos thought, but he said simply, "Because it had to be done."
    
    Methos could see him working it out, a dozen warring emotions flickering
    
    nearly imperceptibly across the Highlander's face in the space of a
    
    heartbeat as brown eyes met hazel.
    
    Mac nodded. He had no doubt Cochrane would have taken his head on holy
    
    ground that morning if Methos hadn't stumbled into the trap instead, and
    
    there was little doubt that Cochrane had been unstable--torching the barge
    
    was, perhaps, understandable, but killing Holyfield had been... Mac
    
    swallowed. The word "unforgiveable" hovered in his mind.
    
    Mac walked down the steps to the water's edge and sat again, Methos joining
    
    him after a moment. They sat together while Methos finished his second beer
    
    and Mac made silent headway on the whisky. Eventually, Methos bundled his
    
    empties back into the plastic bag and MacLeod found himself smiling,
    
    secretly amused. *Methos the good citizen*, he thought. *No littering
    
    allowed. There's probably a deposit on the bottles.* He had a cartoon image
    
    of Methos suddenly, rich as Midas, gleefully stacking the coins he'd
    
    collected over the years from countless returned beer bottles. He grinned
    
    in the dark and stretched one leg, prodding Methos with his foot. "So what
    
    are you telling me?" he asked. "Judge not that ye be not judged?"
    
    "You *do* know that's an incomplete translation, don't you?" Methos asked,
    
    the suggestion of a smile shaping his lips. "It's supposed to be 'Judge not
    
    *unrighteously*, that ye be not judged.'" Mac said nothing, but merely sat
    
    there, looking at him. "There's another one I really like," Methos said.
    
    "'I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required
    
    to forgive all men.' I've always liked to think that extends to forgiving
    
    yourself, as well as others."
    
    "That's not--"
    
    "Yeah, I know. It got left out when they translated the original Hebrew
    
    into Greek. Pity."
    
    A tiny sliver of moon had appeared, peeking through the clouds
    
    occasionally, and MacLeod thought he could smell snow coming. The stone
    
    steps had given up their heat and were beginning to feel chilly beneath
    
    him.
    
    "So," Methos said. "You about ready for supper?"
    
    "I could use a bite."
    
    "Joe's all right?"
    
    "You buying?"
    
    "You still owe me breakfast from yesterday," Methos pointed out.
    
    MacLeod laughed. "Yeah, I guess I do," he commented. "Okay. My treat, at
    
    Joe's." He figured he owed him at least that much.
    
    ***********************************************************************
    
                "Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels,
    
                     and have have not charity, I am become as
    
                     sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal... "
    
                                --1 Corinthians 13:1
    
    ***********************************************************************
    
    I'm very interested in hearing which of the two story endings you preferred
    
    and why. camerondial@hotmail.com
    
    The flashback with Ingrid is adapted, with dialogue, from "The Valkyrie,"
    
    a Season Five episode by James Thorpe.


End file.
